


A Date with Destiny

by TheMarvelousMadMadamMim



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU, brat!Calanthe, listen, soft dom!Eist, this is just straight up smut, with a dash of plot for flavor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25395046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim/pseuds/TheMarvelousMadMadamMim
Summary: Calanthe Riannon has no qualms about booking escorts when the stress of her high-powered job gets too overwhelming. But this time, she's met with a pleasant--and extremely interesting--surprise.
Relationships: Calanthe Fiona Riannon/Eist Tuirseach
Comments: 42
Kudos: 66





	1. Her

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say, other than I regret nothing and this be a giant lemon. 
> 
> But also, seriously: this story is told in three parts. Her version, his version, and what happens after.

Calanthe Riannon slides into the backseat of her chartered car and gives the address in a bored tone, never looking up from her phone. She crosses her legs to keep from outright squirming.

It’s been a while since she’s done this. Since she’s needed to. But Cintran Capital has been neck-deep in acquiring a new tech company, and she’s been grinding out eighteen-hour days, placating whiny executives and holding board members’ hands through every fucking step, as if they haven’t done this a dozen times over, as if they don’t do this every two years or so, as if she hasn’t fucking proven herself and her ability to make a good choice and a solid deal, over and over and over again, ad infinitum, ad fucking nauseum.

She wants to scream. To throw things, to break down and break the glass walls of her perfectly-organized highrise corner office.

She wants to be an absolute brat, to whine and stomp and have someone else be in charge for a change, to be the one to dig her heels in and have to be led by the hand, every step of the way. And now, she can be. The deal is closed, the offices are successfully integrated and merged, the stock numbers are pulling positive attitudes from her finicky fucking shareholders, and she can get back to her usual ten hour days.

Last night, she decided it was time to treat herself. Found the number that she could never save in her phone, called and set up an appointment, with all the usual perks and preferences.

Someone tall. Someone who could handle a little petulance. Someone who wasn’t afraid of discipline. Preferably a clean-cut board-of-directors type, but she could be flexible on that. At a certain point, one had to accept that not every box on the fantasy checklist could be ticked.

And—this being what made things a bit difficult—someone new. Calanthe had spent nearly two decades fucking the same man; she’d been damned if she ever did that again. She wanted novelty, and safety—she could unleash herself, could be as awful as she wanted, because she’d never see her date for the evening again.

Sabrina had assured her that they had just the one. And because Sabrina had never let her down before, Calanthe had merely nodded and taken the next available time slot.

Which was tonight. The city is oddly at-peace, the interesting hour between offices closing and bars truly opening, when everyone is either home recovering from their work week or preparing for their wild weekend, or both. Traffic is easy and the world is a bluish hue, caught between twilight and night, with the haze of city lights bleeding further into the darkening sky.

It feels…magical. Like anything can happen, in a moment like this. Calanthe inwardly rolls her eyes at her own flight of fancy. Refocuses her thoughts on tonight.

She hopes Sabrina found someone better than the last guy. He was…adequate, and Calanthe left feeling as if she got her money’s worth, but it wasn’t her best experience. He moved a bit too quickly, didn’t give her enough time to truly get rid of all the defiance and low-burning anger she felt. He’d pulled back when she asked, but it had only reminded her that she truly was the one in control, the one paying him, the boss still, even when she was pinned beneath him.

Literally not what she paid for.

She presses her lips together and tries not to worry. She needs this to be fully satisfying. She’ll be clearer, this time. More direct in setting the boundaries, establishing the script. She’s getting better at that part.

Another reason she never wants the same man twice. She’d been so young, when she’d married. So inexperienced, so unable to truly know what she wanted, much less ask for it. Somehow, it is easier, having someone new each time. They don’t know how awkwardly she asked, the time before, or how uncertain she’d been. She’s a stranger to them, too—she can play a role herself, pretend to be someone far more confident and sexually self-assured than she is.

That’s why she started using escorts in the first place. It felt…safer. More controlled. It is, after all, a business transaction of sorts—and she is always capable and confident with those. She doesn’t have to fear accidentally picking up someone at a bar who might show up in tomorrow’s meeting—and more importantly, she doesn’t want to be witnessed by some of her own work colleagues, slipping off to some one-night stand.

She tried that route, twice. Right after the divorce. It was awful and desperate feeling, all the things she didn’t want to feel.

She pushes the memories away. No, that won’t happen again. And it certainly won’t happen tonight. She’ll be direct, she’ll be just as aggressive and assured as she is in the board room. Then, once all the rules are established, she can let go and let someone else take control.

The car is pulling to a stop outside a behemoth apartment building, all glass and steel. She looks up at it through the window.

Thirteenth floor. Her lucky number.

* * *

She punches the code into the lockbox on the door. Takes out the key, unlocks the door, puts the key back inside the box. She’s early. She’s always early.

Her heels clack loudly against the hardwood floors, reverberating a little too jarringly in the half-empty apartment.

She surveys the area. It’s massive. High ceilings, very little furniture. Staged, for real estate showings.

Not a bad place, she thinks. And not too far from her office. If her daughter would ever forgive her for selling her childhood home in the suburbs, she might actually consider coming back for an actual tour.

As usual, there are strawberries in the fridge. She pops one in her mouth as she opens the various drawers, finding a bottle opener for the wine bottle on the counter, next to two glasses. She pours herself a generous glass and clicks her way to the master suite.

She has her briefcase, as always (never a purse, never anything that would make her seem too feminine, not in her world, not on her life). Today, it’s packed a little differently. She gingerly sets her wine on one side of the bathroom sink, balancing her briefcase on the other to pop it open. She pulls out the black lace teddy, neatly folded in the pocket of the case. In the main section, amidst pens and a few papers, her black patent heels.

They’re even taller than the ones she’s currently wearing. Far less comfortable too. But they do amazing things for her calves and arse, and she doesn’t plan on being on her feet for too long.

This is why the height requirement is important. She isn’t a short woman; the heels put her at exactly six feet, and she still wants to feel loomed over, at least slightly.

She could find shorter heels, of course. But Calanthe Riannon isn’t renowned for her ability to compromise.

_And why should I have to?_ She thinks. She’s given enough. These were the first shoes she bought, after the divorce. For years, she’d never gone over two inches, because her husband used to make her feel gangly and unattractive, if she ever wore higher. Giraffe jokes were rather frequent, when they attended galas and soirees. In all the photos from those events, she stood with slightly slumped posture, curving her shoulders inward, dipping her head slightly so that he always was noticeably taller.

She still hates herself for that. Even though it had been an unconscious thing.

_This is literally the last thing I want to think about right now_ , she informs herself. Shimmies out of her pencil skirt and underwear, whips off her shirt and unclasps her bra. Tidies up in the shower, then dries off and fully takes the black lace teddy out of her briefcase.

She can’t help but smirk. She looks good in it, she knows. And she always feels a measure of satisfaction, knowing that her ex-husband knows exactly what he lost, when he fucked her over for the last time. She puts it on, rearranges the lace edges just-so in the mirror, then puts on her heels.

Even without seeing her legs in the mirror, she knows the effect. She applies fresh lotion, thinks of all the men she’s met like this before—they might have been the professionals, but she’d never missed the slight drop of their jaws, every time they saw her legs for the first time. The compliment seems to mean more, coming from men who have seen it all, in some form or another.

She hopes this one’s good-looking. She’s never really had a type, when it came to physical looks (then again, maybe she’s just never known what her type was—how else could one explain her life and its choices, past and present?), but she knows when she sees something pretty.

She checks the time. Pretty or not, she prefers them punctual. He’s got four minutes.

She sips more wine (the glass is almost empty, how did that happen?), then turns her attention to her hair. Lets it out of its braided chignon, taking a moment to massage the back of her head, a little sore from the hairpins. Casts an appraising eye over her own face, debating what to do with her makeup. She could just keep the basic kohl-rimmed look she has now. Maybe a darker lipstick, which she also packed specifically for tonight. Maybe a touch-up on the mascara. With delicate fingers, she re-arranges her side-swept bangs just so.

It doesn’t matter, she tells herself. She doesn’t have to look a certain way, unless she wants. Whoever walks through that door is, quite literally, contractually obligated to at least pretend she’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen, but still—she does like the thrill of knowing she’s made an impression. She can tell when it’s feigned.

That was some of the issue with her last escort. For whatever reason, she definitely wasn’t his type.

_Can’t win ‘em all_ , she reminds herself. She’ll add a bit of smoky eye anyway, she decides. Because she wants to, no other reason. Adds perfume and applies her lipstick.

By the time she’s finished, her wine is gone and _he_ is officially late.

She glances at her phone again. No missed calls or texts from the agency.

The front door opens. She shuts off her phone, tosses it into the briefcase with her clothes, snaps it shut and takes a deep breath.

_Be direct_ , she reminds herself. _You deserve exactly what you want, no exceptions_.

* * *

“Hullo?” A voice softly calls. Low, not unpleasant. A bit…hesitant, surprisingly.

She stows her briefcase in the closet and clips her way into the main foyer, flatly announcing, “You’re three minutes late.”

She rounds the corner and is greeted with a wash of surprise.

Fuck. Sabrina hadn’t lied. She’d found just the ticket.

Again, Calanthe Riannon doesn’t have a type—but she knows drop-dead delicious when she sees it. He’s tall, with startling blue eyes and the kind of curly dark hair that instantly makes her want to run her fingers through it. He barely fits the board-of-directors type with his navy suit and baby-blue button down with the opened collar, but she finds that she rather likes the half-undone look. He looks like board-of-directors type at the end of a long day—which, she supposes, fits with the late hour.

“Sorry.” He motions towards the hallway, to the now-closed door. “There was an issue—”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re here now.” She waves the excuse away. It was petty of her anyways, three minutes. She finds it's easy to be forgiving—he’s still staring in soft wide-eyed wonder at her, taking in every detail, from the tips of her toes to the cut of her teddy, all the way up to meet her eyes again.

She’s definitely his type, she thinks with a smirk. Good. That means he’ll be more than eager to make sure she gets her money’s worth.

She motions back to the master bedroom with her chin. “Bathroom’s in there, if you’d like to get ready.”

He nods, moves past her. She lightly puts her hand out, stopping him with a gentle brush of her fingers on his stomach. It takes every ounce of self-control not to flex further in, to enjoy the solid warmth of his body beneath the button-down shirt.

“Keep the suit.” Pointedly, she draws her gaze lower, to his leather belt. “You may need that, later.”

His eyebrows lift at that. Almost…hesitant.

“To tie me up,” she clarifies. “I don’t really go in for full-on lashings.”

He seems relieved. And immediately back-on board.

“Will do." He simply smiles.

Fucking gods on high, he’s got a great smile.

She lets him go and makes her way back to the kitchen. Three minutes. She really shouldn’t have said anything. He was definitely worth the wait.

She pours wine into the second glass and heads back to the master suite. Knocks lightly on the closed bathroom door. He opens it, slightly surprised at the glass she holds up in offering.

“Apologies, about before,” she says. “I’m…a little highstrung.”

“Tough day?” He guesses, with the same lop-sided, almost hopeful grin. He’s handsome, in an almost boyish way, she decides.

“Brutal,” she agrees. He takes the wine, samples it, then takes a larger sip. She watches him, absolutely fascinated. There’s the slight hint of salt and pepper in his scruffy stubble, and the smile lines around his eyes are warm and delightful. She’s usually with men who are a little younger, which seems to be the nature of the business. This is a refreshing change. He has a touch more gravitas, in a way. Like he could truly handle her (if she’s lucky, and oh, she prays that she is). Somehow, she finds the presence of mind to quietly announce, “We should…be clear, on the rules.”

He nods in agreement. She quickly plunges forward, hoping she sounds as decisive and certain as she tries to imply. “I don’t want overwhelming force, but I do want to require…persistent persuasion. You can pin me down or tie me up—but if you put your hands around my neck, I will absolutely beat the shit out of you and not in a playful way, understood?”

“Loud and clear.” He seems amused by her imagery. She doesn’t know if she should feel insulted or amused, too.

“I want to be a bit bratty, and I want you to make me do whatever you want anyways—but again, I’d prefer persuasion over physical force, if you can manage it.”

“I can manage it,” he assures her. His surety makes her arch a brow in slow-burning challenge.

“We’ll see,” she says simply. Feels a small flutter for the way he smirks in response. With a smirk of her own, she continues, “Safeword is Hochebuz.”

“Hochebuz,” he repeats softly, nodding in agreement.

“And most importantly…give me time.” She feels her lungs tighten, just a fraction—because here’s the real clencher, the actual request that means the most. “Let me…exhaust it all, before you really put an end to it.”

There’s something playful in his sparkling blue eyes. “I really can’t wait to see just how exhausting you can be.”

She feels a light flush in her chest at that. Yes, Sabrina did quite well, this go-round.

“Finish your wine,” she commands softly. “I’ve been told I drive men to drink—so best get your drinking done while you can.”

He chuckles at that, but obeys all the same. She leans against the doorframe and lazily watches him, finding herself a bit transfixed by the way his throat moves, idly thinking how lovely it will be, when he’s leaning over her and she bites him, right where the corner of his jaw meets his neck.

She’s not always this turned on, so early in the evening. Rarely, actually. But there’s an obvious chemical reaction going on between them, and it’s been so long since she’s felt that particular zing. Plus, she feels a bit victorious already, having stated her terms so plainly, which he accepted without batting an eye. The communication will be easy, and that’s important.

Sabrina isn’t the first agent she used. But she found that she liked the blindfold experience of not knowing a single thing about her partner before the evening—it kept her mind from spiraling, from worrying too much. She’d filled out a series of questionnaires and had a ninety-minute long phone conversation with Sabrina about her likes, dislikes, wants, needs, and even physical abilities. Her assignments had all been bespoke, in a kind of matchmaker way.

But ye gods, Sabrina has truly delivered, this time. The law of averages dictates that eventually, Calanthe would get a guy who truly ticked all the boxes, but she’s still pleasantly (pleasurably?) surprised.

Well, he _seems_ to tick all the boxes. As stated before, they’ll see, soon enough.

He comes out of the bathroom, and she merely follows him with her gaze, leaning fully against the wall. He takes a slow, measured look up the length of her body again and her thighs sing in anticipation. He moves closer, left hand gently coming up to her hip.

He’s just a few inches taller. Just enough, she decides. He’s barely touching her and she already feels overwhelmed, feels a tension that needs to be broken, in some way. She tilts her chin up slightly, keeping eye contact as she gingerly takes the wine glass out of his right hand, theatrically extending her left arm and dropping it straight to the floor.

He jumps slightly at the sound of shattering glass, then looks back to her with wide eyes.

She merely grins and arches her brow. The heat in her chest rises at the slow ripple of realization that shifts across his features.

“You should clean that up,” he suggests softly.

“Should I?” She challenges.

He has both hands on her hips as he leans forward slightly, slipping a bit more authority into his tone. “Clean it up.”

She leans in, too, barely breathing. “Make me.”

The words are practically swallowed before they leave her mouth—his hands are pinning her hips to the wall and he’s pushing into the kiss, pressing her head back against the wall as well. His tongue slides past her teeth and the heat in her hips skyrockets.

Fucking hell. They’ve barely just kissed—are technically _still_ kissing, for the first time—and she’s already reconsidering her previous rule of never booking the same man twice. He tastes of wine and cinnamon, like the overly sweet gum she generally can’t stand but right now, she can’t imagine a better taste in the world.

He lightly nips her bottom lip, just enough to be felt. He tilts his forehead against hers as he quietly informs her, “I’m not going to _make_ you do anything—but I am going to make you _want_ to do it, all on your own.”

She huffs at that. She feels him tensing, waiting, can almost hear the wheels in his mind turning.

He steps back, giving her room to move. “Come with me.”

She doesn’t, obviously.

He must know that asking again will be futile, because he merely shakes his head—but he seems genuinely amused, as if this is all a brand-new game to him (it can’t be, she thinks, he’s had to have been a very busy boy in the escort world, with his good looks and charming aura—he’s probably played out just about every scene she could imagine, including this one, a dozen times over).

He moves quickly, too quick for her to truly register it until it’s happened—he pulls her forward slightly, just enough to hook his left arm underneath her arse, his right hand steadying her at the small of her back. She wobbles and twitters, bracing herself on his ( _very nice_ ) shoulders.

He grins up at her. His chin is perfectly between her breasts, his scruffy stubble lightly pulling against the sensitive strip of skin currently exposed by the thin lines of her teddy.

She feels delicate, she thinks numbly, in a way that she’s never really felt before. The solid feel of his arm around the backs of her thighs has her absolutely soaking wet and she’d give anything to have him nuzzle further in between her breasts.

He’s still grinning at her, absolutely pleased with himself. “You’d better hope I can navigate my way around such distracting sights.”

She can’t offer a retort, or anything at all, really. Those blue eyes are searing, shining and playful and so eager—his delight is off-setting, in a welcome way. There’s a sense of…camaraderie, in his gaze. Like they’re sharing a deliciously wonderful secret, truly playing a game. Like he’s just as invested as she is, and not simply because she is his paycheck for the evening.

He turns, ever so slightly, as if he’s going to kiss the side of her right breast. But he doesn’t—she nearly whimpers at the soft, warm gust of breath, and nothing more.

She can’t help herself, she simply stares down at him the whole time. He’s focused on finding his way through the apartment, with her entire body blocking his vision.

“Where is the kitchen?” He asks.

She snaps out of her slack-jawed stupor to motion in the right direction. He finds it, without further need of assistance, thank goodness. But he has to turn to the side, to crane his neck to see past her breast, and her nipple tightens, desperate to feel his mouth on her—but again, she’s left with disappointment that’s somehow not that disappointing and further-drenched thighs.

_Pheromones_ , she thinks. It has to be pheromones, the connection between them. There’s no other explanation for how completely messy she already is, and the session started just a few minutes ago (three minutes, she thinks, he’s more than made up for his tardiness by now).

He sets her down and begins searching. She watches him, both curious and already missing the warmth of his body, the steadiness of his grip. Finally, he opens the cabinets under the sink and stops. Doesn’t even look her way as he simply extends his hand, waiting for her to take it.

The sheer certainty of the gesture, the unblinking authority of knowing she absolutely will come to him—her lungs feel too tight to breathe, and her feet move entirely of their own accord.

_I’ll make you want to do it_ , he promised. And right now, it is true. She wants to come to him, to feel him touching her again, to be close to the solid warmth of his body and the distracting scent of his cologne.

She is definitely breaking her rule and booking this one again. Preferably as soon as this session ends, and for his next available slot.

She takes his hand and he pulls her closer, until she’s standing in front of him but facing away, his hands feeling warm and steady on her hips.

She looks down at the open cabinet. There is a hand broom, and a dustpan.

“Pick it up,” he says quietly. He doesn’t lean in, and she aches at the lack of closeness, as just how much she wants to be touching more of him.

She licks her lips, takes a breath. Tries to sound less affected than she is. “Remember that delightful moment when you asked me to do something, and I didn’t do it? And then the moment repeated, yet again?”

She lets the question hang in the air, just a beat. Then adds, with dry almost-disdain, “What part of that makes you think I’m going to just bend over now?”

Fucking hell, she walked right into that one, she knows it—his hands tighten on her hips, pulling her back into him. She presses her lips together at the hardness she feels, pushing into her.

His left hand is snaking up her stomach, stopping just below her breast as he leans in, letting his lips brush against her ear. “Because you want to, don’t you? You _want_ to bend over for me.”

The absolute certainty in his tone makes her throat clench shut. His hands slowly swivel her body, letting her feel exactly what she will be pushing in to, when she does bend over (oh, yes, it’s merely a question of _when_ now, not _if_ ). And gods above, he’s right—she does want to, to feel more of him. But he holds her hip firmly with his right hand, not letting her do just that.

“You have to earn it,” he informs her. Her entire body tightens at the playful tone, at the heat running just below its surface. He's not frustrated in the least, it seems. He's _enjoying_ this, she realizes.

Her eyes flutter closed. One small battle does not win the war, she reminds herself. Besides, she does have to…play along, from time to time. It can be a delicate balance, pushing just enough but not too far. It’s about exorcising her own frustrations, not creating new ones in her partner.

“Go on,” he prompts gently. His right hand shifts slightly, rubbing the side of her hip encouragingly. Her skin sings at the direct contact, at the friction caused by the motion of his warm palm against her.

She does. She leans forward, bending at the waist to retrieve the broom and pan. His left hand slides back to her hip to keep her steady and pull her closer into him—the mere sensation of his cock pressing into her center, even with all the layers of clothing still between them, makes her squeeze her eyes shut and wait for a full beat to recover.

His right hand is sliding up her spine now. “Good girl. See? That wasn’t too hard.”

“Feels pretty hard to me,” she breathes, a bit appreciatively. She’s still trying to process the reaction to his _good girl_ , the soft adoration in his tone that has kicked up a fire which she didn’t know burned until now.

He laughs at the double entendre. She grins like a fool, for some reason ridiculously proud of earning his amusement.

His left hand keeps her steady as she stands up, his right still moving further up her spine, gently pushing her hair over her right shoulder and exposing the nape of her neck.

“It was still exactly what you wanted to do,” he points out in a low tone, his breath rippling against her skin. He kisses her softly, as if testing the taste of her, before nipping the same spot and covering it again with tongue and sucking lips.

She lets out a soft, keening sound, slightly shocked by her own reaction. His grip on her hair and her hip tightens as he repeats the action, with a little more force. She melts back against him, dipping her head forward to allow him better access.

Then he pulls away, so abruptly that she has to stifle a small sound of dismay at the sudden loss.

“Now,” he says. “Will you walk back to the bedroom on your own, or do you need to be carried again?”

“Depends. What are we going back to the bedroom to do?”

“To clean up your mess.”

She hums at that. He must understand clearly enough, because he’s spinning her around and simply hauling her over his shoulder this time, giving her arse a quick smack.

She hanging upside down, feeling a bit giddy from the sudden blood rush—and once again, feeling dainty in a way that she hasn’t really before. Her knees are bending involuntarily, heels lifting to the sky.

“These are really lovely shoes,” he comments, as easily as if they’re sitting at a completely platonic brunch, rather than him slinging her half-naked and completely flushed over his shoulder like some pillaging barbarian of old.

“Oh.” Her mind reels a bit. “Thank you.”

Despite the sudden way he lifted her, his hands are tender and careful when he sets her back on the ground. They linger, just a beat, in a way that makes her heart feel a bit fluttery.

She turns, takes a step back, and, with theatrical slowness, crouches to daintily set the broom and dustpan on the floor. With a light flick of her hands, she sends her message quite clearly: _Nope. Not gonna_.

He merely shakes his head. But she can see the smile he’s trying to hide, and she feels a rush of delight. Yes, he’s still on-board, still amused—she’s definitely going to be able to get it all out, tonight.

Normally, she isn’t quite this bold, quite this stubborn—she’s never actually broken a glass like this before. Usually she taunts at breaking something, and a strong hand stops her. But tonight, she found herself rushing over the edge without even giving him a chance to catch her.

With a jolt of clarity, she realizes that he feels…safe. Safer than any of her other playmates before. There’s something both trusting and trustworthy in those beautiful blue eyes, in the way he seems amused and intrigued by her every action, the way he follows her every move with a lustful intensity that only makes her want to truly put on a show.

She rises back to her full height, demurely tucks her hands behind her back. Waits, feigning innocence while silently daring him to do something about it.

He keeps his eyes locked on hers as he slowly pulls off his jacket. Tosses it on the end of the bed and sets to rolling up his sleeves.

Her breathing is getting heavier, she can feel it. Gods above, it really has been too long—she’s getting completely worked up over the sight of a man’s forearms, for crying out loud (in her defense, they are quite nice). His hands move quickly, with practiced ease and assurance as he finishes his sleeves, and she watches them like they’re the most obscene porn she’s ever seen.

She wants those hands, back on her body. Wants that same steadiness, that same sense of contained strength, applied to her.

He moves forward and she feels another ripple of heat through her entire body. He stops, not quite touching her as he leans in, lips so close to hers.

“Why can’t you just behave?” He asks quietly, voice sounding a bit raw along the edges.

Calanthe feels a spike of wet heat between her thighs again. There's something almost...adoring in his tone. She meets his ( _fucking gorgeous_ ) blue eyes and her chest tightens at the unmasked desire filling every ounce of his expression. He wants her to keep acting out, she realizes. Not just to satisfy whatever script he knows she wants—he _likes_ her like this, finds her ridiculous stubbornness genuinely attractive, is actually turned on by it, by _her_.

“Why can’t you just find a way to make me behave?” She returns in a whisper, shifting just a bit closer. Her chest feels so tight that it might explode. She lets her head tilt a little, lets her nose almost brush against his. “I can be good, if I know it’s worth it. I can be so very, _very_ good, with the right incentive.”

He hums at that, and the sound slides down her own throat, which tightens in response. He dips his head, gaze dragging further down her body. He wants to devour her whole, she realizes. But he holds himself back (and _that_ , that is why she feels safe, she realizes—because he’s never hidden how much he wants her and yet he’s never crossed over any line she’s set, even in moments as heated and heady as this). His fingertips flutter at the laced edges of her teddy, trailing to follow up the high cut of the legs, back around to the swell of her arse. It’s the lightest touch, barely felt and not nearly enough, and she’s an aching, soaking wet mess already, shivering and fighting every urge to lean against him completely.

He makes another small sound of smug amusement, and she closes her eyes. Fucking hell, she needs him pinning her against a wall and ramming inside her, right now—but no way is she capitulating this soon. It will be worth the wait, she reminds herself.

He slowly shifts away—but not backwards. Downwards. She opens her eyes and watches him slowly sink to his knees, his hands slipping to the backs of her thighs as he lightly dips his head, almost between her legs. But he shifts at the last second, lightly placing a kiss on her right thigh.

“Incentive,” he repeats thickly, as if testing the word on his tongue. Then he shifts a bit closer, letting his lips almost touch her thigh again as he speaks, “Just imagine how much more you could have, if you behaved.”

Oh, she’s imagining. And there are other ways of getting it. She finally ( _finally!_ ) lets her fingers dive into that curly mess of hair, pulling him towards her center with just enough force to be felt. His fingers flex hard into her thighs as he nuzzles further into her cunt, without any prompting. He can obviously feel how wet she is, even through the lace—he gives a low, appreciative moan, the heat of his breath nearly melting her completely, then and there.

He stays there a beat. Her lungs forget their purpose, along with her heart. She can feel the tension thrumming through every part of his body, his mind weighing the consequences of giving in to her, of doing what they both want.

Then, he turns his head slowly, letting his teeth come out to play against her inner thigh again. She can feel the longing, the frustration, the absolute strength it takes to pull back (yes, _there_ , that’s why he’s safe). Her knees nearly buckle, but his hands keep her steady.

“Nice try.” He places a small kiss where he’s just bitten. “Better luck next time.”

She chuckles softly, feeling a mixture of frustration and delight. Here’s a playmate she couldn’t ever hope to find, even in her wildest dreams. His hands leave her thighs, and he picks up the broom and pan again, rising to his feet and holding them up rather pointedly with his left hand.

“I don’t clean up my own messes,” she informs him. She feels a measure of pride for how steady her voice sounds, despite the adrenaline pounding through her veins. “I pay people to do it for me.”

“I’m afraid all the money in the world can’t get you out of this one.” He feigns pity. He shifts closer, letting his lips brush against hers, “Besides, I’ll be so proud, when you do it all by yourself. Don’t you want that?”

Fuck. She can smell herself on him, and he’s using that low, knowing tone that makes her whole body clench with want and need. She shifts a bit closer, finally close enough that their chests meet, the pull of his button down through the thin lace of her teddy feeling delicious against her nipples.

She needs him, now. Suddenly, she wishes he was a bit more like her last playmate—already pinning her down, already inside her.

“And don’t you—” Her breath catches as she rolls up against him again, enjoying the feeling of his body shifting against hers. “Don’t you want to go ahead and punish me for behaving so badly?”

He shakes his head softly. Again, there’s something adoring in the way his eyes smile at her.

“I don’t do punishments,” he informs her, voice barely a whisper. He dips closer, letting his lips ghost over her ear, “Only rewards.”

She shivers. He hums, as if he expected nothing less.

“You don’t really want to be punished anyways, do you?” His voice is softer, still lined with knowing but also a hint of hesitation.

Fuck he's good, she thinks a bit numbly. A nice subtle check-in, making sure she still feels as if they’re on script, all without ever breaking the mood.

He shifts closer, fingers sliding into her hair, cradling the back of her skull.

“You want to be good for me, don’t you?” He lets his lips hover over the spot where her jaw meets her neck. She rolls her head to the side, opening up more for him. He hums, lips moving further down her neck, never actually touching her. “See? You do want to be good. And I can show you just how rewarding obedience can be.”

The promise ripples over her skin, certain and warm. Oh, she has no doubt that he can deliver on that.

“Please.” She closes her eyes, not even embarrassed as how raspy and needy her voice sounds. “Please show me.”

“Well." He sounds so smug, so indulgent. “Since you asked so nicely….”

His grip in her hair tightens, holding her in place as he fully brings his mouth to her neck, kiss turning to bite. Her knees buckle slightly and his left hand steadies at her hip, still clutching the broom and pan.

She takes them from his hand, tossing them aside without breaking the seal of his lips on her skin. The clatter is followed by a light growl from him, vibrating against her neck. Still, his now-empty hand fills itself with her hip, slipping around to grab her arse and haul her further into him.

She whines at the sudden intensity.

“I can be good in other ways,” she promises in a breathy whisper. Wonder of all wonders—Calanthe Riannon, _offering_ to compromise. The man is a miracle worker.

He takes a beat to simply suck on the pulse point below her jaw. “Oh, I'm sure you can. But why can’t you be good in the way I asked you to be?”

“Because I don't want to.” She answers before she can truly think about it.

He stops for a beat, laughing softly into the curve of her neck.

She feels a flutter of surprise. He still enjoys this—he still wants her, just this spiteful and stubborn. He wants to win this little game, but not by forcing her into capitulation.

It makes her want him all the more.

Her hands find his belt buckle, blindly unclasping it. “Let me just— _show_ you, how good I can be.”

He dips his head slightly at that, giving a soft huff as she unbuttons and unzips his pants. Her right hand slides in and she hears her own soft exhale at the feel of him, warm and solid in her hand. The tip of his cock is already wet with precum and she presses her lips into a hard line to stop from outright whimpering with want. She uses the pad of her thumb to massage a bit more, before sliding her whole hand down the length of him, keeping her touch light, just enough to tease. He feels so good, so ready—she could hit her knees and have him capitulating within seconds, she knows.

But she doesn’t want that. Like him, she wants to win through persuasion, too—if she even really wants to win at all. More than anything, she just wants… _this_ , whatever it is, to continue.

“See?” She leans in, mimicking his previous stance and keeping her lips close to his ear. “I can give you exactly what you want.”

He lets his lips drag across the side of her neck, the stubble on his chin pulling more heat and fire into her lungs as it follows along. He shifts, pushing a bit more into her hand and she thinks, perhaps, she’s won. Feels a small flutter of disappointment at the thought (he’s inventive, she can’t deny it—she’d been eager to see how he would counter this offer).

Then his grip on her hair tightens as he thickly whispers, “I want you to do what you’re told.”

Now it’s her turn to laugh breathlessly, in both amusement and relief. His left hand grips her wrist, pulling her away from his cock, and she makes a small, pouting noise at the loss. Then she looks up, catches the darkness of his eyes, and the whole world stops.

Oh, the things he wants to do to her. The ways he wants to lose control and launch himself at her. She feels a ripple of curiosity, tinged with almost-fear (he’s been safe, so beautifully restrained so far…but how far can she push until he snaps?). She merely arches her brow, shifting closer so that their mouths are nearly touching, sharing the same breath. He’s breathing heavily now, and she aches with the need to simply push him just a little harder.

Quietly, she prompts, “Are you _sure_ that’s what you want?”

She knows her wicked grin does nothing to help the situation, but she can’t help it. She’s never had a playmate who’s been so deeply affected, who’s put this much effort into a scene. It fascinates her endlessly, and in the most erotic ways.

He’s still holding her so tightly, but he simply follows with her movements, letting her still shift up against him again. Her right hand is still in his grasp, but her left is free to slip under his shirt—she can’t help the small noise of delight that slips out of her lungs at the feeling of his bare chest under her fingertips, which involuntarily flex into his flesh.

He feels _real_. A large portion of the men she’s hired are like fantasy versions, overly muscular and without the slightest bit of give. Bonus points, she thinks idly, as if at this point, there’s any need to make any further case for rebooking. Her hand continues wandering, sliding around the curve of his ribcage to his back, pulling her body closer into his again.

Finally, he breaks. Directs her face upwards, into a searing kiss. She hums in approval, holding him tighter and rolling up on to the tips of her toes, pushing further into his mouth.

Then, far too abruptly, he’s pulling away, disengaging from her grasp entirely. His hands go to her hips, spinning her around so forcefully that she loses her balance, but he keeps her upright, easily moving them both forward, back to the area where the majority of the shattered glass waits. She can hear the crunch of the smaller shards under her heels.

She’s still breathless and reeling from the kiss, from the sheer shock of being shifted around like a ragdoll with such easy certainty.

He braces his right hand against her stomach, splaying across her with such possessive authority that her still-spinning mind whirls even faster. His left hand runs up and down the side of her hip as he leans in, voice so heavy with want that it makes her eyelids flutter. “Do you really want to know what I want?”

She makes a small, needy sound—she can’t even nod her head, she hopes he understands.

He seems to. He presses his lips further into her ear. “I want to fuck you, to really _feel_ just how good you can be. I want you begging and breathless beneath me. I want to reward you, to give you everything you deserve for being a good girl—but you first have to _behave_.”

His hand grips the side of her hip harder, as if pushing the command into her flesh, and her knees nearly buckle again. This time, he uses it to his advantage—he doesn’t hold her up, but rather sinks further down with her, still keeping her steady as he crouches behind her. She rolls forward slightly, but he holds her back.

“Not on your knees.” His voice loses its growl, becoming absolutely gentle. “There’s glass, love.”

He punctuates the endearment with a small kiss on the point where her arm meets her shoulder, and she finds herself closing her eyes again, overwhelmed by the sudden softness.

This is literally not what she’d paid for—or what she’d wanted, when she’d booked this session. And yet…this is surprisingly better than she ever could have imagined it. Like every facet before, the sudden tenderness immediately intrigues her, and she pushes forward, just a bit more.

She leans out, picking up a large shard of glass.

He hums in approval. His left hand slips up, cupping her breast—the weight and warmth of his hand makes her exhale softly, her already-aching chest shuddering at the touch. But that’s all it is—a holding touch, nothing more. He waits.

Incentive, she understands. If she wants more, she has to do more. With a half-frustrated huff, she leans forward again (she has to admire his creative problem-solving skills, though). His fingers flex deeper into her breast, encouraging her as she delicately picks up another shard. He shifts, rolling her taut nipple between his thumb and forefinger. She shudders and slumps forward a bit, another rush of wet heat pushing into her core.

Then his hand suddenly departs, lightly grabbing her left wrist.

“Hey.” His voice is gentle again. “Be careful.”

She’d been practically clenching her hand into a fist—if she tightened it much more, she would probably cut herself.

He holds his hand open. She gently turns hers over, dropping the shard into his palm.

“See?” His tone laces with teasing, placing another light kiss on her shoulder again—this one on the other side of her teddy’s strap, closer to the curve of her neck. “Getting better at following directions already.”

She huffs at that. Leans further back, further into the strange new quietness between them. The air has turned thick and heavy, almost alive, a thing with its own pulse. She takes the second shard from her other hand and puts it in his palm, too. He nuzzles into her neck—she barely feels the tiny kiss he places there, but feels it all the same, and fire ripples across her skin again.

They fall into a rhythm, slowly cleaning up the mess. Eventually, he brings over the dustpan and broom and she sweeps up the smaller bits. He rewards her with little caresses and kisses and squeezes for every single thing, and if she was a mess before, she’s supernovaed into _absolutely fucking helpless_ , unable to resist against the pull of her body and how it shakes like a fiend in a need of a fix. He seems to understand, lets his touches have more weight, lets her incentives actually stave off some of the tension building in her veins.

Finally, it’s all cleaned up. He hasn’t lied—she _wanted_ to do it, wanted to earn more of his praise and his soft touches. He slowly helps her to her feet, both moving a bit gingerly (all that crouching, in heels and forty-five-year-old knees, not the best combination, her angry joints scream). He keeps a hand on the small of her back, ushering her back to the kitchen, to toss the glass in the bin and put the dustpan and broom under the sink again.

She leans down to stow them away, and his hand on her spine stills her.

“Stay,” he says simply. She’s too far gone to do anything but obey. He shifts to her side, leaning in to whisper in her ear, “No more incentives. Just rewards for good behavior. Which means no more acting up.”

He’s leaning in enough to let his chest push against her shoulder blade. The almost-weight of him feels so good, so grounding in a moment when her body feels completely overwhelmed and out of control. She merely nods. His right hand, on the small of her back, slips further down, over the swell of her arse.

He gives a low, appreciative sound for the feel of her muscles, strained from still being bent over in her heels. Dips his head forward, kissing her shoulder again before shifting to his full height, moving his left hand under her stomach as his right keeps moving.

Her cunt tightens, pounding and aching with need. With theatrical slowness, his fingers pull back the strip of lace, letting out a low, almost-growl of approval for how soaked she is (how soaked she’s been, almost since the beginning, to the point that it’s almost uncomfortable now).

Her hands scramble, slamming onto the edge of the kitchen counter to brace herself. His left hand pushes lightly into her stomach, silently assuring her that he’s got her.

Not that she doubted, even for a second. He has her, has had her, from the moment she rounded the corner and looked straight into his beautiful blue eyes.

He doesn’t tease, and she’s eternally grateful for that—for the easy, assured way his fingers slide inside her, instantly emptying her lungs in a long, audible exhale.

“Fuck,” he says softly, echoing her own mind’s thought. She feels another ripple of pride, knowing that for all the ways he has her, she’s got his number, too, just as deeply. He pulls out slowly, as if savoring the feel of her, then pushes in again, fingers curling so that his knuckles push into the spot that makes her eyes snap shut and her throat clench. She nearly collapses then and there.

He continues, never really changing the slow, almost-torturous pace. Quietly, he asks, “Do you feel…exhausted?”

She feels another surge of affection for this man, this stranger (she still doesn’t even know his name, she realizes hazily). Still checking in, still making sure her expectations are met—and yet, there’s an air of patronizing indulgence in his tone, as if he’s still absolutely the one in control, and she doesn’t feel like the time before, where she was so clearly reminded of her own control, her own role as boss, once again. No, there’s almost a challenge in his words, a push for her to admit that he’s won—fuck, he’s good at what he does, she thinks (can she book him on a weekly basis, a standing reservation?).

“Yes,” she pushes the word out, through another wave of heat.

“So you’ll behave?” His tone holds a bit more edge. She answered his concerns; now he’s fully back in his role.

“I’ll behave.” Holy hell, simply saying the words nearly melt her to the floor. His fingers push, just a little harder, and her vision stutters with white, just briefly.

“Good girl.” His words settle, warm and weighted on the small of her back. She dips her head lower, feeling the swell building inside her hips. Then his hand is slipping out of her, not pushing in again. She waits, stifles a cry of distress at the loss.

He gently pulls her upright again, and she feels a wave of lightheadedness. He simply brings her into him with his left arm, keeping his right hand free. She turns her head slightly, eyes widening at the sight of his fingers, still wet from her.

He stills, and she senses his thoughts before he actually moves. His right hand slowly moves to her mouth, and she can feel the intensity of his gaze on her face, can feel just how transfixed he is.

Just like before, she wants to put on a show. To do anything to keep his eyes on her, to keep them filled with such lustful wonder. She leans in slightly, waiting. His fingertips lightly brush against her lips, softly seeking permission. She opens her mouth and takes both fingers, sliding her tongue between them and closing her eyes at the soft, astonished exhale he gives in response. She pulls back, using just the slightest drag of her teeth over his knuckles, taking a beat to suck on his fingertips one last time before releasing his fingers.

His hand, still wet from her mouth, slides into her hair, turning her further towards him to pull into a kiss. She shifts and leans into his chest. His hand slips further down—then pulls back abruptly. It takes her a beat to understand—he was touching her neck, and he suddenly realized what he was doing, and stopped.

This is odd. The surges of affection she feels, when he has these moments of soft consideration. Her hands clutch at the fabric of his shirt, pulling him deeper into the kiss. His hands come to her wrists, thumbs lightly stroking her pulse points as he kisses her. Then he gently shifts back.

She counters, slightly pulling back as well.

He looks as disheveled as she feels. His hair is a mess, his pants are still open, his shirt half-untucked, flushed face and dark, shining eyes.

Fuck. She thought he was drop-dead delicious when she first laid eyes on him—but now, it takes every ounce of self control not to devour him whole.

He notes her gaze and gives a wry, boyish grin. Her heart hammers into overdrive.

“Bed.” He says simply. She nods in agreement, turning on her heel. She hears his soft chuckle behind her, but she’s far too gone to give a flying fuck.

Here’s the thing—you can be absolutely obedient and still manipulate situations to get exactly what you want. Calanthe Fiona Riannon knows this, beyond all doubt. All she has to do is add a little more swivel to her hips, put a little more weight into her steps, which makes things jiggle and flounce, just a little more—his amusement devolves into a low growl, and his footsteps are following quickly behind her.

She reaches the bed and turns back to him, eyes going wide at the sight of his shirt, half unbuttoned. She can’t stop herself—she’s moving back to him, taking over for his hands, finishing the buttons and slipping her hands up his chest. She takes a moment to simply savor the feeling of him before pushing the shirt off his shoulders, shifting closer.

“Oh, so _now_ you want to be helpful,” he muses, and she gives a grin in response.

“Sometimes the work is incentive itself,” she admits softly, dipping her lips against his collarbone.

“No more incentives, remember?” He breathes. She brings out her teeth, just enough to be felt. Lets her hands slip around his waist, lets her fingertips sink deeper in. She thinks this is reward enough—just getting to touch him, to taste him, to feel him holding her. He’s warm and he’s soft and he’s solid and he’s safe in a way that makes her want to simply curl into him. She’s almost content to stay just like this.

Thankfully, he doesn’t quite agree. He nuzzles against her cheek, his voice heavy and rasping with want. “Middle of the bed. Lie face down. Now.”

It’s torture, tearing herself away from him, but she’s promised to be good—and she knows the temporary separation will be more than worth it.

He makes a low sound of admiration as she crawls across the bed, and she dips her head, smirking at the unvoiced compliment.

It’s gotten a bit…unprofessional, she thinks. Of course, it passed that marker ages back, but she hasn’t minded. Maybe that’s part of what makes it so much hotter than all of her previous encounters. It feels…intimate, in a way the others haven’t. More…domestic, in an odd way.

Not that she minds. She wouldn’t mind paying extra, to keep him as her personal playmate—to maybe have more than just a standing appointment, once a week (maybe three times? Maybe more of a kept man sort of arrangement?). She can’t imagine him actually agreeing to such an idea—there’s no way he isn’t constantly in high demand, he probably has a rotating schedule of long-term clients whom he’d never give up, not for her or her money. Still, it’s a lovely little fantasy.

She sinks into the down comforter covering the bed, willing herself to be still and patient. She hears him moving closer and fire ripples across her skin in anticipation.

He gingerly removes her heels and her toes are instantly grateful for the sudden release. His hands slide up her calves appreciatively as he shifts her legs wider and climbs onto the mattress as well.

Her thighs are practically trembling. He leans in, brushing a few stray locks of hair over her shoulder before letting his fingers slip under the straps of her teddy, slowly pulling them further down her arms. The straps aren’t that wide, and yet she feels herself shivering, as if somehow he’s exposed so much more of her skin to the open air. He leans further in, kissing and nipping his way across her now-bare shoulderblades and creating absolute agony within her, a constantly tightening chest and a heat in her hips that’s almost painful in its intensity.

She’s breathing heavily again, and she know he can feel it, can feel her ribs practically heaving beneath his mouth.

His words from earlier echo in her mind: _I want you begging and breathless beneath me_. She shivers again, realizing that he hadn’t been simply saying what he thought she wanted to hear—he’d wanted this, wanted _her_ , exactly like this.

Regardless of whether he actually accepts the terms, she really is going to have to talk to Sabrina about potentially creating an arrangement, she decides. The compatibility is just too off-the-charts to let it go without at least trying to keep it—after all, this is still a business agreement, and Calanthe has built an entire career off knowing when to spot a good merger and make it happen.

He presses a solid, warm kiss on her spine, trailing further down, to her lower back, still covered in lace. She’s curling into the mattress, desperate for more.

He shifts forward again. This time, he lays on his left side, next to her, still hovering over her body as much as possible. She instinctively shifts closer, turns her head to face him, practically burying her face into his arm. He leans in, nuzzles against her neck as his right hand slips over her arse again—she widens her legs eagerly, already moaning at the thought of him truly touching her again.

He hums approvingly. This time, he merely strokes her clit through the soaking wet lace. Fire and relief shoot through her hips, drawing desperate sounds from her lungs. She turns her face to the mattress, almost embarrassed at the noise she’s making. She’s generally not this loud—but she’s also generally not this strung out, either.

“Don’t hide,” he urges gently, kissing the spot behind her ear. “Let me hear you.”

He strokes her again, rolling his hips closer so that she can feel just how much he’s enjoying the sounds she’s making (fucking hell, she wants _that_ , wants _him_ , wants _more_ , just simply _wants_ , with every fiber of her being).

She’s already shaking, practically whining at all the sensations and reactions he’s creating within her.

“I think we can agree the game is fully played,” he continues quietly, his hand keeping an easy rhythm. “I just have one last request.”

She shifts, angling to better make eye contact. He’s still smiling down at her with such surprising softness.

“Will you let me do what I’ve been wanting to do to you, since I first saw you in the hallway?”

Her entire body reignites ( _hotter_ , how can she possibly get hotter, she’s already past the boiling point), and she whimpers in agreement.

He grins and it’s like actual sunlight, pure and so full of delight that she can physically feel it radiating against her skin. Holy hell and profane heaven, she wants more of that smile so much that it makes her fucking teeth hurt.

He studies her. She feels like a butterfly on the most exquisite pins. Then he kisses her shoulder and simply says, “Good girl.”

Great gods above, she twitters and whimpers like an absolute idiot. Her mind ripples with the same shock she felt, the first time he uttered the phrase. Why does it affect her like this? Why does she…crave it, so suddenly, so deeply? Why doesn’t it seem as trite and ridiculous as she’d imagined it would—why does he say it with such absolute conviction and adoration, in a way that takes away the sense of chagrin she thinks she should feel?

He’s worth every penny, she thinks, yet again.

He shifts slightly, looking down at her with that same earnest delight, not a hint of patronizing or sarcasm anywhere to be found. He seems…proud of himself, like he’s discovered a new secret and he’s overjoyed that he gets to share it with her.

“You like that, don’t you?” His tone curls with a softness that only makes her melt even more. “You like being told what a good girl you are.”

She blushes, but she realizes that she’s not truly embarrassed. It’s true, and he speaks it in a way that makes her want to accept it whole-heartedly.

“Yes.” It shouldn’t take this much effort, to say such a small, simple word. But she means it with every ounce of her body, and it takes almost that much just to speak.

He dips his head, bumping his nose lightly against hers—again, it’s as if they’re sharing a secret, as if he’s quietly thanking her for showing him this side of her. Then he strokes her a little harder, and she moans and pushes closer to him, desperate to touch and be touched by as much of him as possible.

“Such a good girl,” he whispers. This time, he knows exactly what he’s doing, exactly how he’s affecting her. He kisses her forehead, just above her left eyebrow as he gently prompts, “Open up and let me reward you for being so good.”

Her legs are obeying before her brain can even truly think about it. He hums warmly, blue eyes locked onto her with such open adoration.

“You were right. You can be very, very good.”

She can’t help but grin as his declaration, at the impressed smile he gives along with it. He’s not acting, she knows. Not faking or feigning the desire he feels or just how deeply she affects him.

That realization alone sends a surge through her hips.

Now he smirks as he adds, “When you want to be, at least.”

She’d laugh, if she wasn’t so overwhelmed by the faster strokes of his finger, pulling more waves inside her, higher and higher.

“And you want to be good, don’t you?” His tone is smoky with knowing, and she can hear how much he wants this, too. “You want to show me just how good you can be.”

The first wave of her climax rolls through her body, the herald of things to come (quite literally). She pushes her face into the comforter, muffling the louder moan that only produces more heat in her own hips.

He’s burrowing into the curve of her neck, his tone raw with an almost feral insistency. “Show me, love. Show me.”

It’s the _love_ that gets her. Even in a tone so aching with lust, it’s somehow still so soft, so genuine.

She breaks, feeling a wave of deep relief as she empties her lungs and her vocal chords into the mattress ( _she’s_ the one making all this noise, she’s the one sounding so erotic and scorching, surprising even her own ears, and she numbly loves him for making her this way, for making her feel and sound so soft and feminine and delicate in ways that no one else has ever made her feel, has never let her be). She barely registers the feeling of his body pressing against her side, and her hips, now lifting almost entirely of their own accord, are practically aching to have him inside her, to fully unleash all the tightness and want. She keeps falling apart, keeps coming in waves that shock her, every time.

Finally, her body gives out and she’s practically gulping air into her lungs, her throat feeling deliciously raw from the screaming and panting.

He shifts, just a little, bringing more of his body over hers, almost lying atop her completely. He feels reassuring, solid and settling.

“Good girl.” He kisses the shell of her ear. She shivers in aftershocks. She shivers at weight of him, pushing her further into the mattress as he simply waits a beat, as if savoring the feeling over their bodies so fully pressed together, from shoulder to ankle. She shivers at the feeling of his cock, pressing up against her arse, so ready and wanting.

They’re not done, not by half, she thinks hazily, and she grins at the thought. She’ll never book any other escort, she decides—at least not until he goes into a much-earned retirement.

Then he moves away, off the bed again. She closes her eyes, trying to recollect her body and her mind, both of which seem scattered across the entire room. She can hear the sound of him undressing completely, the sound of the condom wrapper, even the sound of the beat he takes to simply look at her again. She can almost feel the heat of his gaze, can pinpoint exactly which parts of her body he’s looking at now.

_What I’ve been wanting to do to you, since I first saw you in the hallway—_ that’s what this is, she reminds herself with another swell of almost-giddy delight. He'd wanted to fuck her, from the moment he saw her. And he waited so long, diligently playing her game with a sense of commitment she’s never seen before. Granted, some of it is simply professional courtesy—but she knows all too well that any of his colleagues would have broken long before, would have done the bare minimum and then gotten their own slightly-more-personal repayment for services rendered.

_He can have whatever he wants_ , she thinks warmly. He’s earned it, a dozen times over. She _wants_ to give him whatever he wants, anything he wants, to thank him for his patience and his playfulness and his sheer electric eroticism that he brought to the session.

His hands are on her ankles again, light, almost reverent, as they slide up her calves.

“Turn over,” he calls softly. The kind of tone one uses in a temple, when they’re afraid of disturbing the gods.

She gladly obeys, legs immediately sliding open again. His hands hook under her knees and pull her quickly towards him—she twitters in a mixture of surprise and eagerness. The straps of her teddy are still halfway down her arms, completely exposing her breasts, and he eyes the sight with such warm appreciation that she flushes again. She has to look a mess, she thinks, but he looks so proud of himself for making her that way that she can't really do anything but grin in return.

Maybe he would be more open to the idea of becoming a kept man than she first assumed. He pulls her hips closer, tugs aside the lace covering her cunt and pushes himself inside without preamble. Her thighs snap tighter around his hips instinctively, her entire body tensing at the feeling of _finally_.

Now, she has no doubts about exactly what he wanted to do to her, the moment he saw her. He doesn’t move slowly, doesn't tease or draw it out. He thrusts into her with such passion that her lungs forget to breathe, his hands gripping her hips with such fervor that her head spins. And, most interestingly—he stays focused on her face, on watching her pant and whine under the intensity of his attention.

It’s like being in a hurricane. She has no choice but to hold on—her thighs around him, her hands clutching the comforter so desperately that her nails begin to scream from the pressure of digging into the mattress.

Her nails aren’t the only thing screaming—she can hear the sounds she’s making, and she can’t stop them, even if she tried (she’s too far gone to try). She shatters, squeezing her eyes shut and pressing her chin further to the ceiling as her hips lift higher. But he holds her in place, never stops the pace, making her orgasm blossom and slam into another round of shuddering tension. She feels absolutely feral, finds herself leveraging her grip on the bed to push further down, further into him, even as her body screams to pull away, to resist the overwhelming sensation already building back up in her hips.

She honestly has not made this much noise since she gave birth—and that was an entirely different experience, for entirely different reasons. Numbly, she wonders if the neighboring apartments can hear. Realizes she doesn’t really care. This is too much, too powerful and animalistic to hold it all inside, to try being demure and tame.

But she also needs to truly let him have it all, to take exactly what he wants and needs. She forces her thighs to loosen their grip, to shift wider, to let him in deeper—he gives a low, breathless sound of approval, jerking her hips into him again and making her head spin.

Begging and breathless. That’s how he wants her. And she wants him to get everything he wanted from this experience, too (that’s how this is different, she thinks, this is how it feels oddly more domestic—the desire she feels to make sure it's mutually rewarding, on an equal level). So she drags more air into her lungs and gives him what he wants.

She’s not entirely sure what she’s saying. She begs for more, begs for him, begs with little more than breathless pleases—doesn’t seem to matter exactly what she says, because it seems to affect him, either way. Somehow he’s pushing harder, and she’s shaking again.

She’s also already rethinking her original arrangement proposition. Three nights a week may not be enough. With Pavetta at university, she’s got entire weekends at her disposal. Entire days that she could be getting fucked, just like this.

The thought alone sends her crashing into her next orgasm. She feels the jerky desperation in his movements—he’s not far behind, she realizes, and she redoubles her efforts and begs all the harder. He finally comes and her whole body ripples again in response.

He plants his hands on the mattress and leans in slightly, as if taking a beat to recover. She closes her eyes, takes a deep a breath and relishes all the sensations still sparking through her blood.

Oh, fuck. This was good. Beyond divine.

Three nights a week, plus full weekends, she decides. She can drop down to two nights a week, if he prefers, but weekends stay on the table, absolutely non-negotiable. She already knows she’ll pay whatever price he sets. She can’t not have this again. The shine may wear off, but for now, she’s willing to take as much as she can, for as long as the zing lasts.

It will last a little longer, she realizes with a flutter of delight. He’s looking into her face with that same boyish, hopeful grin that he’d given her, when he’d asked about her day. He’s still…invested, still engaged, even though technically his work is done ( _for now_ , but if she has her way, she’ll keep him fully employed as much as possible).

“You really are exhausting,” he decrees warmly as he slips out of her, and she feels a giggle bubbling up her throat in response to the quip.

“I told you—I drive men to drink.”

He hums at that. He’s watching her with a lazy warm look that says he wouldn’t mind taking a long drink of her. She simply looks right back, feeling exactly the same.

But for all the warmth, it’s still a business transaction. A slightly awkward air develops as the process of disengagement begins. He heads to the bathroom to clean up. She finally sits up, pulls her straps back up, tucks her tits back into place. Delicately combs her fingers through her hair, smooths her hands down her stomach. She doesn’t put her heels back on—she’s already spent far more time in them than she’d expected ( _no regrets_ ).

She pads barefoot back to the closet, taking out her briefcase.

The bathroom door opens and he brushes past. She glances over her shoulder to watch him walk back to his clothes. _Nice arse,_ she thinks. She flushes as the idea of having so much more time to thoroughly explore every inch of the body currently walking away from her.

She dips her head, shaking it slightly at her own lasciviousness. Usually she doesn’t feel this way, after. But then again, she usually doesn’t feel this level of personal attraction, before.

She hears the light rustle of him getting dressed as she grabs the nondescript white envelope from the inner pocket of her briefcase (she should have gotten more cash out, she thinks, because he certainly earned a tip).

She rises to her feet and turns back to him.

Only to see that he’s holding a similar white envelope, hand already lifting it up in light offering—to _her_ , as if he’s the one paying for tonight.

“Wait, _what_?”


	2. Him

Eist Tuirseach glances at the clock at the back of his classroom, trying to focus on the student standing in front of him, asking more questions about the upcoming exam.

He’s going to be late, he realizes. Maybe it’s a sign. Maybe…he shouldn’t go.

No. He’s going. He’s committed.

It’s more about research than anything, he thinks. It’s not like he can’t pick up a woman at a bar or a seminar (not like he hasn’t).

“Professor Tuirseach?” The student gently brings him back to the present moment.

“I’m sorry.” He snaps out of it. He simply holds up a hand as he heads for the door. “I’m just—I’m late for an appointment. But email me any questions you have; I’ll answer them as soon as possible.”

He hurries down the hallway. It’s an evening class; the building is practically abandoned at this hour. Also, he’s on the drama and performance floor—not many people take classes on dramaturgy, his specialty, and most of his students cleared out ten minutes ago.

One of his theatre students is actually the catalyst for all of this. They’d been studying improvisation in the introduction to acting class, and the student—a notorious oversharer—announced, with absolute conviction, that the best improv experience he’d ever had was with an escort.

It was so inappropriate and off-the-wall, Eist had shared the story with another professor. Who’d merely squinted and nodded slightly. _No, no, I could see how. I mean…there’s a certain commitment to fantasy in a way that doesn’t really allow for breaking character, right?_

The question had stayed with Eist. As had the entire debate started by his students during the initial discussion. The idea of having a scene with a definitive end goal, but with absolute freedom in-between. The idea of having both more, and less, rules.

So eventually, Eist found himself on a website, then calling a number. Sabrina, the head of the Aretuza Agency, had actually been extremely easy to talk to—she made it seem far easier, far less clandestine than he’d imagined such a transaction to be. He chose the blindfold option—it felt a little…odd, choosing a woman off a website, like he was ordering take-out. After a series of questions, Sabrina gave him options for contacting his potential date.

He’d chosen email. It seemed better, easier for him to collect his thoughts and truly consider any questions the escort might have—and if he backed out, it was a little less connected, a little easier to let her down, if he hadn’t so much as heard her voice.

They’d discussed exactly why he was doing this, what he wanted from the experience—in the end, he’d realized that he didn’t really know what he wanted, beyond simply the experience itself. Besides, improvisation means you can’t set expectations or plan a scene beforehand.

She’d understood. Told him that once they met, she’d choose a scenario, based on the “general vibe” she felt from him (and inwardly, he’d prayed that she was not quite as young as she sounded, using such terms—he wasn’t sure he could commit to doing something with someone who looked like she could be in his freshman history of theatre class).

His mind swirls with possibilities. He goes to the address listed in the agency email he received that morning. It’s a fascinating new world, to say the least. He uses the code in the email for the lock box. Hesitates as he opens the door, listens for a moment.

Someone’s already here. As instructed, he brings the key in with him, since he’s the last the arrive. Locks the door, sets the key on the small glass table in the entryway.

Calls out, so as not to startle her, “Hullo?”

He suddenly realizes that in all their emails, she’s never given a name. Feels an odd wave of confusion as to how he’s only just now noticed that.

Heels click with a weighted assurance, moving closer to him.

“You’re three minutes late.” The voice is decidedly older than her emails sounded, and he feels a ripple of relief.

Then she rounds the corner and relief shifts into something far warmer, far more pleased.

Holy hell. She’s all legs—and far more. Soft curves in a black lace teddy that leaves very little to the imagination and the darkest, most beautiful big brown eyes he’s ever seen. Her chestnut hair’s down, in uniform waves like it’s been braided, highlighting the length of her neck which is…distracting in an indescribable way.

Those gorgeous doe eyes are even wider as she takes him in—the feeling is mutual, he realizes, and he hadn’t actually considered that there might actually be physical attraction between them, especially something this instantaneous and intense. But it’s a pleasant surprise, and he’ll gladly take it.

He’ll gladly take _her_ , he adds inwardly.

He feels another ripple of surprise. He knows how much he’s paying for this session, and by gods, this woman grossly undercharges. He’d easily pay twice as much (yes, even on his limited professor’s salary) just for the chance to look at her, dressed like this. What he’d pay to actually touch her—that’s a far higher number.

He immediately wants to put them on the right foot again.

“Sorry.” He isn’t sure how much to explain, how much of his personal life to share (are there rules for this kind of thing, why didn’t he ask or look them up before now?). “There was an issue—”

“Doesn’t matter, you’re here now.” Her hand flutters. It’s lovely, expressive. So there _are_ rules, apparently, he thinks. Probably best not to share too much, to get too…involved. He reminds himself that despite the wildly intense amount of attraction he feels towards this woman ( _call girl_ does not fit her, because she’s definitely _woman_ , from her broad shoulders to her full lips and delicious hips), she’s still a professional and deserves to be treated as such.

She jerks her chin over her shoulder, “Bathroom’s in there, if you’d like to get ready.”

He nods in agreement, following the unspoken command. He wonders briefly if that’s the note the night will take—he’ll gladly do anything she says, he already knows.

She reaches up as he moves by, fingertips pressing into his stomach, which instantly tightens in response.

“Keep the suit.” Those dark eyes drag down his chest, and he can almost feel them, as solidly as teeth against his body. She stops at his belt, lifting her brows lightly, “You may need that, later.”

His throat tightens. He knows he agreed to improv, but he was clear in his interview with Sabrina that he didn’t really enjoy S&M stuff, and that was something he’d reiterated in his email exchange with her personally. There might actually be things that he won’t gladly do if she asks, he realizes with a ripple of worry.

“To tie me up,” she clarifies. “I don’t really go in for full-on lashings.”

Relief overtakes the light anxiety. So she remembers. Good.

“Will do.” He can do that, he decides. If she tells him to.

The corners of her eyes smile, and her hand drops away as she moves in the opposite direction.

He wants to follow her, to stay this close, to feel the electricity radiating off her in waves. But instead he moves forward, through the master bedroom where the bed seems even more stark and obvious, in a room filled with no other furniture whatsoever.

The apartment is obviously staged for real estate showings…but just barely. Just enough to pass scrutiny, he realizes. This apartment has probably been “on the market” for months.

He wonders how many times _she’s_ been here. All the things she’s done, on that four-poster bed. Or against the wall in the dimly lit foyer. Or over a kitchen counter.

He shouldn’t think of her like that, even though he’s literally (technically) paying her for those types of things.

He cleans himself up a bit, realizing he’d begun to sweat from nerves on the drive over. He’s fully put together again, looking at his own reflection and trying to remind himself that this isn’t anything bad, anything other than a more…involved improv scene.

It’s hard to remember that last bit, when he recalls that face, that body encased in lace. His greatest fear now is crossing a line—this is still a professional exchange, and he can’t promise that he’ll be able to stay professional, now that he’s actually met her, now that he’s felt the effect her body has on him, now that he’s see her own reaction in kind.

He reminds himself of Sabrina’s instructions. He pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, turns it off and sets it on the bathroom counter. He pats the inner pocket of his jacket, then pulls out the plain white envelope that was also part of Sabrina’s instructions.

After, he thinks. He isn’t entirely sure about protocol on this step. But things are already awkward between them and he’s afraid of making it worse. So he slips the envelope under his phone. Hesitates. Wonders. Agonizes.

A light rap on the door pulls his attention. He feels a flutter of chagrin—he’s wasting her time, yet again.

However, her expression is equally hesitant, lined with a light air of regret as she offers him a glass of wine.

“Apologies, about before.” Those eyes are endlessly expressive, he realizes. They widen, just a bit, as if confessing a dark secret, “I’m…a little highstrung.”

“Tough day?” He feels an instant need to reassure her, to say he understands. He still isn’t sure if he’s crossing a line, asking about her day.

“Brutal,” she says in a low tone. He drinks the wine to keep from asking more questions, from giving in to the urge to try to comfort her, in some way (like she cares about his concern, like she wants or needs it, like she isn’t used to johns falling at her feet in absolute love with her after five minutes in her presence).

“We should…be clear, on the rules.” Her voice has a light pull to it, an almost-hesitant air. He suddenly realizes that perhaps this is something new for her, too. She’s used to men coming to her with set fantasies, which she fulfills. This might be the first time she’s been the one making such choices, the one putting so much of her own desires on display (at least in her work).

He merely nods along, hoping he can allay whatever fears make her hesitate slightly.

Her voice is strong and sure, but gods damn, those eyes are wide and almost pleading in a way that makes his heart clench almost unpleasantly. “I don’t want overwhelming force, but I do want to require…persistent persuasion. You can pin me down or tie me up—but if you put your hands around my neck, I will absolutely beat the shit out of you and not in a playful way, understood?”

That last bit is said without hesitation or fear. He grins at the sudden bite to her tone, the hard set of her brows.

“Loud and clear.” He assures her. He likes this side of her, he decides.

Those expressive eyes are doing a full workout as she continues, shifting between worry and want and everything in-between in a way that absolutely fascinates him beyond belief. “I want to be a bit bratty, and I want you to make me do whatever you want anyways—but again, I’d prefer persuasion over physical force, if you can manage it.”

“I can manage it.” Or he’ll die trying, he decides. She’s so…warm, he thinks, the way her eyes flood with all her emotions, the way her breathing and body language tells the actual truth behind her perfectly-pitched words. The physical attraction certainly helps, but it’s something in those eyes that makes him willing to truly give her anything she asks, he realizes.

She blinks at his declaration, as if she hadn’t quite expected him to actually agree. Then a look of wry amusement slips over her features, her brow arching into a playful challenge.

“We’ll see.” Her voice is warm, edged with a bit of rasp. Holy fuck, it’s a delicious sound. He wants to swallow it, swallow her whole. She smirks as she continues, “Safeword is Hochebuz.”

“Hochebuz.” He nods, promising himself that he’ll never give her reason to use it. Stay away from her neck, he reminds himself. At least with his hands—a rather fortunate qualifier, as he’s not one for choking but he’s absolutely dying to kiss her there.

Suddenly, she becomes still, almost small. Those big brown eyes flick up to meet his gaze again. “And most importantly…give me time.”

He feels his heart clench at the thought that she even has to ask for such a thing. He tries not to think of exactly what prompted her to make such a request.

“Let me…exhaust it all, before you really put an end to it.” She adds, and he feels a measure of relief. She’s referring to the game itself, not a physical state.

Oh, it’s going to be a long, long time before he’s ready to put an end to it, he thinks warmly. He plans on using every damn minute of this session to the fullest.

For…research, he reminds himself. Still, he finds himself teasing, “I really can’t wait to see just how exhausting you can be.”

She _blushes_ at that, and suddenly, he thinks she’s _adorable_.

“Finish your wine,” she prompts. “I’ve been told I drive men to drink—so best get your drinking done while you can.”

 _Drives them to crying with want, more like_ , he thinks, chuckling as he takes another sip.

Speaking of want—he watches her press those full lips into a tight line as she watches him finish his wine, and more than anything, he wants to kiss her. He slowly moves out of the doorway, feeling a ripple of delight at the way she counters, leaning further against the wall, opening herself up further.

He starts small, feeling a bit overwhelmed at being greeted with so much of her, the warmth radiating off her body, the dancing light in her dark eyes, the rising flush on her chest. He places a hand on her hip, immediately thinking _perfect_. She looks perfect; he thought that as soon as he saw her—he couldn’t have dreamed up a better looking woman—but she also feels perfect, too.

He feels the slight thrum of tension through her body suddenly. She lightly takes his wine glass.

He’s still trying to process the sudden glint of mischief in her eyes when the sound of shattering glass fills his ears. He jumps slightly.

If she was beautiful before, she’s absolutely sinful right now, with her arching brow and defiant smirk that just challenges: _What are you gonna do now?_

The game has officially begun, he realizes—with quite a bang. He’s got a role to play. So with a light, uneasy breath, he tries to push himself into the right mental space. “You should clean that up.”

He’s too soft, he thinks. But he can’t quite make himself be harsh, not with her, not with a face like that.

“Should I?” She pushes back, tone curling with amusement.

He tries again, with a little more authority. “Clean it up.”

Ah, that’s better. Her eyes widen, obviously pleased, too. She shifts forward a bit, still humming with energy, and it takes everything he has not to just capture that distracting mouth of hers.

“Make me.” She challenges.

He no longer has the strength to resist. His hands tighten on her hips, pushing her into the wall as he dives into kiss her—she exhales, making the smallest, softest sound and pushing it into his mouth, and his head spins. He chases that sound, diving deeper with his tongue.

It also buys him time. This is improv. The rule is to always take what your partner gives you—to say _yes, and…_ in response to whatever they throw your way.

He can say yes to her _make me_ —and he can add his own qualifiers. He thinks of her earlier statement: _persuasion over physical force_. Honestly, he’s far more comfortable with that anyways. He wants her melting, the way she currently is, pliant and open and making little noises of warm approval. He wants to pin her against the wall because she wants him to.

He pulls back, realizing maybe it’s a bit too much, a bit too intimate, the depth of the kiss he just gave. He takes a breath and adds his terms, “I’m not going to _make_ you do anything—but I am going to make you _want_ to do it, all on your own.”

She huffs, as if immediately disagreeing that will ever happen. But her hips slide, almost pushing deeper into his touch. Melting. Yes, this is exactly what she wants.

Fuck, she’s good, he thinks. Her nonverbal communication is next-level. The way she stays in character and still gives cues to his real-world counterpart, still operating outside the bubble of the scene.

Alright. How does he direct this? His mind turns—how would he clean up the mess, in the real world?

Kitchen, he thinks. During his own time as a university student, he helped clean houses for real-estate agents. They generally followed the same staging protocol—cleaning products and tools under the sink. Hopefully that hasn’t changed in the past twenty years.

He steps back, feeling far more confident as he says, “Come with me.”

She merely leans further back against the wall. One corner of her mouth hooks into a grin. She’s all mischief and playful defiance—fucking hell, he’d love to have her right now, right up against that wall, with that exact expression on her face, the whole time.

Patience, he reminds himself. Besides, he technically isn’t here for sex. That’s the end goal, the destination, not the journey. He’s here for the journey, he reminds himself. But he certainly is going to enjoy the destination, once they reach it.

But there are rules—and they can’t reach anything until certain rules are met. He has to let her be bratty, has to make her want to follow along.

He takes another look at those ( _fucking delicious_ ) legs. They’re strong. He’s not making them take a single step that they don’t wanna take.

Improvise. He uses the element of surprise, pulling her forward and sliding his arm under her ass, hauling her up and holding her steady with his right hand.

She makes a delightfully feminine noise, grabbing onto his shoulders in surprise. Those eyes are wide and filled with a measure of something…darker.

He can’t help but grin—he’s proving himself, he knows. He feels a measure of pride, thinking that maybe, he can be a little different than her usual clients. That he can be…memorable, in a good way.

He finds himself instinctively leaning in, seeking out the soft heat of her body, radiating from the strip of exposed flesh that starts just below her breasts, where the center of her ribcage ends, stretching all the way up to that tantalizing neck. It takes every ounce of self control not to just push further in, to nuzzle into the warmth, to taste her body, to enjoy just a moment of sheer delight.

Roles, he reminds himself. And rules. _Play your role, follow the rules._

Still, he lets himself tease. “You’d better hope I can navigate my way around such distracting sights.”

That’s not really the role speaking—it’s absolute fucking truth. The lace is practically sheer, he can tell the exact shade of her nipples, can see how tight they already are, can imagine just how they’d feel beneath his tongue, still covered in lace.

Fucking hell. The thought alone nearly undoes him. The actual act might murder him, he thinks a bit numbly.

He tries to distract himself, to focus on the task at hand.

It’s been too long, he thinks. Not that his sex life has ever been filled with this level of eroticism. He’s had plenty of satisfying experiences, but he doesn’t date anymore—at his age, it’s all bitter divorcees, or women desperate to get married and make babies right away, or women far too young for him. And one-night stands stopped doing it for him, a while ago. Not really his thing, anymore.

That’s what this is, he realizes. Except, it’s not. And technically, it’s something he can repeat again, if he wants. She knows why he’s doing this ( _research, remember, research_ ), and he wonders how she’d feel if he asked to book another session with her (and another after that).

And truth be told, he’d never felt this level of zing, with any of his one-night stands. He can’t quite figure out why the attraction was so immediate and overwhelming, but he realizes that he doesn’t much care about the why, so long as he still gets to experience it.

“Where is the kitchen?” He realizes that he has no fucking clue where anything is in the apartment.

She motions to her right. The softness of her ass shifts against his arm and he instinctively tightens his grip. Holy fucking hell, she’s a full-package dream boat. He turns them sideways, so that he can better see where he’s going. He gets a bit distracted by her breast, right in his line of sight—more importantly, the way it shifts, as if she’s already breathing heavily.

 _Destination_ , he reminds himself. _Focus on the journey_.

It’ll be easier to focus, if he’s not holding her, feeling the full weight of her body pressed into him, or the heat of her skin radiating against his face, begging to be tasted.

He sets her down and tries to rein in his impulses. Takes a few beats to simply look through other cabinets, giving himself a moment to pull back, mentally. Finally reaches the cabinet under the sink and feels a flutter of victory at the sight of a hand broom and dustpan.

He can’t quite look at her, not yet. So he simply reaches out his hand for her.

Surprisingly, she clips over to him, without a second’s hesitation. A blessing, since if she smirked at him with that same mischievous look she gave up against the wall, he’d probably have her laid out on the kitchen counter in a heartbeat.

He gently guides her in front of him, and he can feel the tension thrumming through her body. She’s just as affected, he realizes. Good, that’s good, he decides. He can work with that. He can feel less…lecherous, finding ways to ease the tension, if he knows it’s something they both need, they both want.

He takes a beat to simply listen to the sound of her breathing, to watch the rise and fall of her shoulders (she’s got lovely shoulders, he thinks— _lovely everything_ —the kind that were made for little kisses). Once he feels a little steadier, he softly commands, “Pick it up.”

He can feel her considering her response.

In a raspy, droll tone, she drawls, “Remember that delightful moment when you asked me to do something, and I didn’t do it? And then the moment repeated, yet again? What part of that makes you think I’m going to just _bend over_ now?”

He can’t help but grin. Gods above, she’s good. She gives him just the right direction to go, just enough permission to move forward. He tightens his grip (fucking hell, she’s so deliciously soft), bringing that ass further into him. He takes in her response—the light dip of her head, the subtle way she barely pushes in and shifts, as if grinding against him. Yes, she needs a little release, too, he knows for certain now.

He’ll give her some, but not nearly enough—enough to encourage her, but not enough to satisfy her. He lets his left hand slip up her stomach, palm singing at the warm softness beneath the lace—he restrains himself from actually reaching her breast. He finds it easier to find the right tone as he leans in to whisper, almost tauntingly, “Because you want to, don’t you? You _want_ to bend over for me.”

He guides those delicious hips, lets them slowly grind against him again—she melts a little more, and he feels a flutter of delighted victory. But then he holds her firmly, just enough so that she can’t continue.

“You have to earn it.” Now he feels absolutely at-ease in his role. He knows beyond all doubt that she’s into this particular interaction, and he likes the thought that they’ve found this balance so quickly, so easily.

She hesitates. He gladly takes the excuse to physically prompt her, letting his hand slide to the bare skin on the side of her hip, rubbing it appreciatively. “Go on.”

He half-expects more resistance—his mind is already trying to think of a way to get her to comply—when she leans forward in a smooth, easy motion, bending at the waist and pushing further back into him. His left hand’s grip on her hip tightens instinctively—holy hell, he can _feel_ her, can feel how hot and wet she is, even when he’s fully dressed and she’s still covered in her jaw-dropping little lace number. His brain short circuits for a full beat.

He could have her now. Just like this. Physically, they’re both ready, he knows beyond all doubt.

 _Give me time_. Her voice had been steady and assured, but those eyes— _those eyes_ —had been pleading and almost…afraid. As if she wasn’t sure that she could trust him to understand.

He suddenly realizes, more than anything, he wants to make her feel safe. It’s a bit ridiculous that he feels so attached to a literal stranger (still doesn’t know her name, but it feels weird to ask, as this point), but…he does. He cares, as odd as it sounds, even in the confines of his own mind.

 _Use that_ , his drama teacher brain directs. _Don’t shy away from the caring, lean into it. Let it influence your decisions._

So he does. Lets his hand slip up her spine, lets the warmth in his chest slip out of his throat as he encourages her. “Good girl. See? That wasn’t too hard.”

“Feels pretty hard to me,” she retorts. The light push of her hips, pressing her center further into him, punctuates her point.

Laughter bubbles in his lungs, surprising him slightly. She’s an absolute delight, he thinks warmly. He prides himself on holding back, on letting her play and snark some more.

There’s an easy sense of familiarity growing between them. Maybe that’s why the affection comes so easily. He can play to that, too.

He tries not to get too carried away—tries not to imagine having a longer, more intimate sense of familiarity. Tries not to imagine this scene as a husband and wife, playing these games every evening, partners and playmates in more ways than this.

She’s a professional, he reminds himself. It’s not fair, placing those fantasies on her, even if it’s what other people do, all the time.

His mind tells him this. His body doesn’t seem to listen. Because she’s rising up again and he’s brushing her hair over her shoulder, leaning in to catch the warmth of her skin and the light note of her perfume, something heavy and sweet, like jasmine. Everything about her makes him feel oddly fond, makes him want to be soft, makes him want to call her pet names and shower her with little tokens of affection.

“It was still exactly what you wanted to do,” he reminds her, feeling the way she restrains a shiver at the sensation of his breath on her skin. He kisses her once, gently, then uses teeth and tongue, closing his eyes at the sound she makes in response, soft and feminine and mind-blowing. He holds her tight, holds her steady as he continues, feeling another surge of feral want at the way she melts and tilts her head forward, opening up more to him.

Trust, he realizes. She’s displaying a sense of trust. He wants that, just as deeply as he wants to bend her over the sink and sink inside her.

He has to stop, immediately. Before he loses all control and does just that. He pulls away—there’s a small sound from her, and he feels a measure of victory. _I’ll make it worth the wait, love._

“Now,” he says. “Will you walk back to the bedroom on your own, or do you need to be carried again?”

“Depends.” There’s a playful edge to her tone. “What are we going back to the bedroom to do?”

Oh, he knows exactly what he’d like to go back to the bedroom and do. “To clean up your mess.”

She hums, warm and somehow tinged with an air of amused defiance.

He can’t carry her the same way again, with her tits in his face. No way can he resist a second time, especially not after everything that’s happened since then.

So he whips her around, a bit surprised at how easily she turns in her heels, and pulls her over his shoulder. Before he can think about it, his brain registers her rather lovely ass and his hand instinctively smacks it. There’s a delightful jiggle and a small noise of surprise from over his shoulder.

He did not think this through, he realizes. Because yes, her tits are not right in front of his face, but her ass—and those amazing legs—are now right on his shoulder. He could lean over and bite the side of her hip, right now.

And fucking hell, she’s so close that he can smell her arousal, just how ready she is for him. His chest tightens and his jaw clenches.

 _Destination_ , he reminds himself. He tries to focus elsewhere.

But great gods above, she really is all legs. Her heels are curling upwards, only highlighting the muscles in her calves and the delicate tendons in her ankles (he isn’t really a foot-fetish type, but hell, there isn’t a single part of her he’s seen so far that isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen—she definitely chose the right line of work, he thinks, because every client who sees her must just throw money at her, at the chance to simply be around her). He tries to focus on anything other than her actual body.

“These are really lovely shoes,” he says, again before he can think about what he’s saying. Great, now she probably does think he’s got a thing for feet.

“Oh.” She seems a bit confused (as she should be—hell, _he’s_ confused, and he’s the one who said it). “Thank you.”

He doubles his pace and gets her back on her own two feet as quickly as possible.

And he absolutely isn’t surprised when she just as quickly divests herself of the broom and dustpan, with a little impish air that only makes him want to laugh.

She’s the naughtiest, cutest thing he’s ever seen. He’s glad she asked for no physical force—he couldn’t bring himself to try and break her, even if she had begged him to.

No, he definitely wants her to willingly fall to his charms. Wants her melting into him again, breathless and needy, like she was in the kitchen. Wants her to trust him enough to pour herself into his hands.

She rises to her full height again ( _holy fucking hell, those legs_ ), folding her arms behind her back and waiting with an almost demure air for his reaction.

She’s practically begging him to come play, with those big brown eyes.

He realizes that he does want one more thing from her—he does want her begging, begging him to fuck her, after she’s run herself ragged in this little game of push and pull.

The game has reached a new level, after the moment in the kitchen, he realizes. She responds better when he gives her little moments of release—he’s learning the give to her take, the push to her pull, a true exercise in improvisation, if ever there was one. So he removes his jacket, sets to rolling up his sleeves.

He watches her watch him, with her wide eyes and quickening breath. He realizes that, even though he had no real clue what he was getting into tonight, this certainly is nothing like what he expected an encounter with an escort to be like. She’s so…responsive. He just wants to make her respond even more.

She’ll beg, if he pushes her far enough, he knows with absolute certainty—couldn’t tell you how he knows, just that he does, as deeply as he knows his own name.

He moves closer, but not close enough. Leans in, but doesn’t kiss her again, even though she tilts her chin up to meet him, eyelids fluttering so invitingly. She’s so soft, so eager to melt. He thinks by now, most men have absolutely fallen at her feet, the game already over—she has eyes that would topple empires and drown whole seas, who could resist their pull, when they look upon you like that?

But again, he thinks of her rules, at the beginning. The look in those same eyes, when she asked him to give her time, silently asking him to truly play. Yes, she’s used to winning, and to winning quickly, he imagines. Even if she seems to want that, it isn’t what she asked for—it isn’t what she _truly_ wants.

And it isn’t what he wants, either. He wants to be different. He wants to win, too. The thought of her, when she finally does give in, sends more heat through his entire body.

“Why can’t you just behave?” He asks, hoping she won’t for a while longer, hoping she’ll let this game string along until she’s truly exhausted, until she’s truly at the point where she’ll beg.

She makes a soft sound, more felt than heard, and he senses that she’s about to kick it into higher gear. “Why can’t you just find a way to make me behave?”

Gods above, a challenge if ever he’s heard one. She’s even closer now, teasing him, so close but never quite touching him. Her voice is silky, lined with a warm certainty as she adds, “I can be good, if I know it’s worth it. I can be so very, _very_ good, with the right incentive.”

There’s a raw rasp to her _very, very good_ , and he can’t help but hum at the delicious sound of it.

 _Very, very good,_ his mind echoes. He glances down, his hands almost instinctively shifting towards her hips. He only lets the tips of his fingers slide under the lace, lightly tracing the line around her hips, to her ass. He’s barely touching her, and yet he can feel how warm and soft she is. He watches small wakes of goosebumps ripple over the bare skin, just beneath his hands. Yes, very, very good, he agrees.

She stifles another sigh and he can’t help but hum again ( _still heard it, love_ ). She’s desperate for more, to the point she can hardly think straight—maybe he’s projecting, a little, but he’s learned that when it comes to feeling overwhelmed, they seem to follow relatively the same ebb and flow, so if he’s feeling it, then so is she, most likely.

He thinks of her, slung over his shoulder. The scent of her, of how much she wanted him already. Before he can really think much further, he’s slipping down to his knees, throat tightening with want. She shifts a little, widening her stance just a fraction more, and gods above, how he’d love to answer that unspoken call.

He pulls himself back, settles his lips on her thigh instead, with a relatively chaste kiss (still, it’s warm and soft and more than enough, he thinks, for now). His hands slip around to the backs of her thighs, and he could cry at how pliant they feel beneath his fingertips.

“Incentive,” he recalls the very last bit of her statement. Yes, that’s what they’ll call these little moments, these little ways to ease out just enough tension to make it bearable. He shifts closer again, keeping his lips close to her thigh as he points out, “Just imagine how much more you could have, if you behaved.”

She gives a little growl at that, and he nearly laughs—or he would, if he weren’t immediately redirected elsewhere by a set of impatient hands in his hair.

She doesn’t fully pull him into her, but she doesn’t need to—he can’t stop himself from pushing further in between her thighs, moaning delightedly at the soaking wet lace that greets him. Her thighs shiver at the sound and his head spins again. He wants to dive in with his tongue, to taste the scent that’s overwhelming his senses, to make her shiver and make more of those delicious little sounds she made when he kissed her neck.

It takes him a full beat to rein in the feral pounding need overruling his mind. To remind himself that there’s something more, something better just around the bend, if he can stay strong and string her along further.

It’s agony, turning away from her wet and wanting cunt. He lets out a little of his own tension, testing his teeth against her inner thigh (it’s just as hot, it already has traces of her taste, holy fuck she’s already an absolute mess, far closer to the edge than he realized—this only pushes him forward, gives him more determination). Her grip tightens in his hair and that’s his final push. Yes, he wants her, begging and desperate and clutching at him, just like that.

“Nice try. Better luck next time.”

She laughs. Still tries to push him, to goad him into reacting. Refuses to take the broom and dustpan that he offers her yet again. Tilts her chin in that cheeky little way that makes him want to kiss her. She shifts closer and he pretends not to notice just how close she’s gotten, just how easily he can feel the hardness of her nipples pushing against his chest, through the layer of his shirt.

It’s an incentive, he decides, watching the way her eyelids stutter at the brief contact. She needs a little something, to take the edge off.

But then she’s pushing a bit more, practically grinding up against him as she breathlessly asks, “And don’t you—don’t you want to go ahead and punish me for behaving so badly?”

She’s trying to figure him out, he realizes. Testing to see where her limits are, where the boundaries lie.

But she’s already been clear: _I don’t want overwhelming force_. And he doesn’t want to force her, either. She’s more than enough of a woman, but there’s something about her that’s still so…delicate. He doesn’t want to break her, even in play-pretend.

“I don’t do punishments.” He finds himself needing to lean in again, to whisper in her ear, “Only rewards.”

She shivers. He loves it. Yes, this is the better choice. If he takes control with force, the scene ends rather quickly. He’s…curious, to see just where she’ll go, just where _they’ll_ go, if he lets her continue.

Still, he feels the need to make sure. “You don’t really want to be punished anyways, do you?”

Her eyes widen slightly, as if surprised that he asked. The idea that maybe, her previous partners hadn’t asked, makes his heart clench a little, and not pleasantly. He just…wants to touch her, gently.

So he does. Lets his hand slip into her hair, to the back of her head. Holds her in a grasp that she could easily break, with the slightest amount of resistance. She closes her eyes, briefly, her expression so soft that he nearly melts.

He can’t stop himself from diving into the softness, leaning in to almost kiss the pulse point on her gorgeous neck. “You want to be good for me, don’t you?”

Her answer is a slow, gentle roll of her head in his hand, more of that neck on display for him to do with as he pleases.

 _Trust_. This is what he wanted. What she wouldn’t have given, not like this, if he’d caved at any of the previous points in the evening.

Still, he doesn’t quite give in yet. He’s already let her release some tension, just moments ago. If he keeps giving in, it will absolutely devolve, and neither of them want that really, not yet (not when waiting means that something ever greater is coming). So he simply ghosts over the line of her neck, all the places he’d love to kiss and nip and suck. Just like with her thighs, he has a point to make, “See? You do want to be good. And I can show you just how rewarding obedience can be.”

“Please.” Her voice is that delicious low rasp that sends electricity down his spine. “Please show me.”

Finally. She’s beginning to beg. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or to weep.

“Well, since you asked so nicely….”

He can give in, just a little. For both of them. Besides, if he wants her to beg, he needs to show her that it’s worth her while, right? _Incentive_.

But he already knows he’s made a dangerous decision. Her skin feels so good beneath his lips, his teeth, his tongue. And she melts so beautifully at the touches.

Her right hand is fluttering against his left hand, still at her hip, still holding the broom and pan. She fumbles, takes them from his grasp and her whole body jerks as she tosses them out of the way.

 _We’ve come so far and now we’re back here again_ , he thinks with slight flutter of irritation. But he’s not really frustrated, not truly. Though it does give him an excuse to retaliate, moving his hand around to her ass and grabbing as much as he can, jerking her into him.

She whines and shudders and he thinks of the lace between her thighs, how much wetter it must be.

She promises to be good in other ways. Tries to distract him, sliding her hand into his pants, stroking his cock and whispering breathy promises about giving him exactly what he wants.

But this isn’t what he wants. He wants her, begging to be fucked, not winning through a simple hand job. And while it feels absolutely divine, the way she pulls and strokes, he tells himself that something better is on the horizon.

So he tightens his grip on her hair, just enough to be felt, and declares, “I want you to do what you’re told.”

She _laughs_ , like the very idea is absolutely absurd. Yet there’s a hint of surprise. She expected him to capitulate.

He’s already long decided that he’s not going to be like her other clients. He finds the strength to pull her hand away from his cock. Watches her, watches the way she looks up at him and stops, suddenly aware of just how serious he is.

She’s practically vibrating as she pushes back, “Are you _sure_ that’s what you want?”

He realizes that they’ve truly entered a battle of wills. She’s grinning up at him with such unrepentant glee, and her face is shining, absolutely beaming in a way that’s beautiful beyond compare. And it’s like she _knows_ , she knows the power of that smile and she’s dead-certain he’ll fall to it.

She’s shifting slowly against him, and he keeps his grip on her wrist and her hair light, letting her move. Her free hand slides under his shirt and the little noise she makes at feeling his bare skin makes his cock twitch, practically whining for her to stroke him again. Her fingertips flex into his chest and again he thinks: _yes, this is what I want, you grasping and desperate in the best of ways_.

He has to move them forward, or they’ll devolve right here, he thinks. Still, he allows himself just a moment of weakness, pulling her in and recapturing that smirking mouth. She hums warmly, tightening her grip around him and returning the searing intensity of the kiss.

She’s truly desperate, he can feel it. Good. Because desperate also means distracted.

He moves quickly, pulling back, whirling her around by her hips and hanging on tighter when she wobbles and twitters. He fully wraps his right arm around her waist, left hand on her hip as he strides forward—he’s half-certain he’ll have to lift her feet off the floor entirely, to keep from dragging her, but surprisingly, she matches his pace, still a bit too stunned to actually resist.

He’s holding her so close that every step is a shift of their bodies against each other, a ripple of fire and need across his skin, a promise of softness and warmth pressing into him.

He stops when they get to the largest collection of glass, taking a moment to simply appreciate the feel of her against him.

She’s been clear in her expectations. Maybe it’s time he returned the favor.

“Do you really want to know what I want?”

The desperate little sound she makes in response makes his head spin again. He closes his eyes, holds her tighter still as he nuzzles further into her, letting his lips brush against her ear. He pushes past the fear of sounding too trite, too porno-scripty, and tries to be as honest as possible. “I want to fuck you, to really _feel_ just how good you can be. I want you begging and breathless beneath me.”

She shivers against his chest, pressing further into him. Oh, she wants just that, too. He loses the worry he’d held about being too over-the-top, and adds, “I want to reward you, to give you everything you deserve for being a good girl—but you first have to _behave_.”

He realizes that his left hand is practically digging into the softness of her hip, clutching on for dear life. He truly feels like a dam, waiting to burst, and he isn’t sure how he’ll handle it, if she doesn’t just obey and follow along.

She’s melting again, and he follows her lead, slowly guiding them to a crouching position. She keeps sinking—forward instead of down now, and he feels a sudden flash of worry.

“Not on your knees. There’s glass, love.” He can’t control his voice, or his reaction, the instinctive need to lightly kiss her shoulder, and he knows it’s too soft, too out-of-character for the scene. But then she tilts her head back a little and melts, just a bit more, and he realizes that maybe, it’s not too soft at all.

He thinks of the kitchen. How she responded to his good girl. She likes it, he already knew. But maybe it wasn’t the words he’d used, but rather the tone.

They might be entering a new level in the game, he thinks.

She reaches out, picks up a piece of glass without any prompting at all.

So they have entered a new level. He makes a small noise of approval, letting his left hand come up to her breast—he barely restrains himself from doing anything more than simply holding it ( _wait, just wait, little by little, incentives, remember_ ). Yet that small touch is enough to have her shivering and sighing.

Yes, he can have her begging, if he plays his cards just right.

She waits for more; he simply waits. Then she huffs, obviously not happy that he’s not continuing—but wonder of all wonders, she shifts the glass to her left palm and reaches out with her right hand again, picking up another large shard of glass. The reach pushes more of her breast into his palm and his fingers flex involuntarily into the warm weight. She leans back again and his fingers find her nipple, playing with it through the lace. She exhales heavily and shudders and his cock tightens further at the little display—but then his eye catches her left hand, which rises slightly during her response. Her fingers are tightening into a fist, around the rather large piece of glass. She’s so far gone, he doubts she notices or can control her body’s reactions.

He reaches for her wrist before he can even think about it. “Hey. Be careful.”

Without a second thought, he opens his own hand. She understands, gingerly transferring the glass to his palm. She seems a little…chagrined, and he doesn’t want that.

So he teases, “See? Getting better at following directions already.”

He kisses her again, closer to her neck, still soft and gentle. She huffs at his remark, but her body is languid again as she leans back. She shifts a little, almost as if snuggling into him.

Safe, he thinks. She feels safe. She turns her head to the side, a little closer to him, as she holds up the second piece of glass and deposits it in his waiting palm. He can feel her small smile radiating from every pore of her being. She’s understood the incentive program fully, he realizes—tit for tat, quite literally. He nuzzles back into the warmth of her neck, leaving a small kiss. She tilts her head, opening up just a bit more, for just a beat. He can feel the steady rhythm of her pulse, just beneath his lips.

This, he thinks, is more than worth the wait. The little quiet playfulness, the softness, the warm satisfaction radiating off her in waves. He could have never gotten this, if he’d caved in sooner.

She leans forward again, reaching further out for another piece of glass. His head dips slightly, watching the muscles in her shoulderblade ripple and shift with her movements (again, holy hell, there isn’t a single part of this woman’s body that isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever seen, _shoulderblades_ are doing it for him, really?).

By the time she shifts back again, his right hand, still on her stomach, is instinctively pushing lower. He lets his fingertips brush against her thigh, relishing the way she huffs softly at the touch.

He keeps his hand there as she reaches for another piece of glass, letting his fingers sink deeper into the softness. She moans softly and shifts back with her hips, swiveling just enough to be felt, just enough to make him nearly forget his earlier concern and tighten his own hand into a fist.

“Glass,” she says softly, turning her chin towards his left hand. He loosens his grip, and she puts another piece into his palm. Her fingertips lightly trail down his wrist.

He realizes, a bit surprisedly, that for her, getting to touch him in return is just as gratifying as being touched. She strokes down the length of his forearm, a bit reverently, the feather-light touches burning like fire.

He waits, watching in fascination as her hands, almost as expressive as her eyes, slide back up to his wrist, fingers slaying wider to touch as much of him as possible. Her fingers wrap around his wrist, her thumb stroking his pulse point, pushing in deeper against the tendons.

It’s official. She could brush her teeth and it would be the most erotic thing he's ever seen in his whole damn life.

He realizes his own fingers have been moving on their own accord, still making small, appreciative swirls on the inside of her thigh.

She pulls away from his wrist, picking up another piece of glass. He feels a wave of smug satisfaction—she's doing it all, without any prompting, entirely of her own free will. He can’t help but think of how it will be, when he finally gets to reward her. The way she'll taste when he bites her neck again, the way she’ll feel when he pushes inside her, the way she’ll sound when he drives her over the edge.

The thought alone is almost too much. He waits, barely, just enough for her to put the next piece of glass in his palm. Then he moves his hand further to the side, gingerly depositing the bits into a small pile. She stills, obviously sensing a shift. He lets his hands come to her breasts, pulling her further into him as he squeezes. She lets out a long, low exhale, as she leans further back against him, tilting her chin up to the ceiling. Her hands go to his knees, squeezing out matching beats of encouragement as he continues massaging her breasts, each movement of his hands pulling out another small huff or hum from her lungs.

He nuzzles into the left side of her neck and she shifts, right hand coming up to pull her hair out of the way, over her right shoulder so that he has far more places to kiss and nip. He lets his fingers slide to the sides of her breasts, waiting a beat to time it just right, slipping under the layer of lace to find her nipples again at the exact moment he tests his teeth against her neck. Fucking hell, she feels even better without the lace in the way.

She lets out a low, long, shaking sound, almost curling into herself—but his hands still keep her steady, still keep her right where she needs to be. Her hands flutter and scrabble against his knees again, sliding further down to grab the back of his thighs as leverage to pull him closer, to press her ass further into him. She nearly sends them tumbling—not the best idea, with glass everywhere—and Eist can’t help but feel a rush of victory. She’s an absolute mess, in the best of ways.

He steadies them again, nuzzling the spot behind her ear. “Clean this up quickly, so we can focus on more important things.”

She nods, small and quick. Her chest is still heaving and he isn’t sure that she could actually use words, even if she wanted to.

He slowly disengages, rises to his feet, feeling a wave of lightheadedness (they’ve been crouched down longer than he’d realized). Grabs the broom and dustpan, and returns to her, lightly holding it out. She takes it, taking a beat to look up at him with such burning intensity that his heart stops.

Those dark eyes flick a bit lower, to his still-open pants. She bites her lip gently, but doesn’t make a move. Instead, she looks back up at his face. The want is so palpable that his throat tightens in response.

She merely smiles. Soft and almost mischievous. _I could, but I won’t_ , the slight arch of her brow says. _I’ll be good, for now,_ her little smirk adds.

The game has changed again, he realizes. She’s done with power plays.

With a theatrical shrug of her shoulder, she shifts slowly, turning away from him to begin sweeping up. He steps back, simply watches her, the constant shifting of her shoulders, the muscles in her legs as she moves—the knowing look she throws over her shoulder at him, smiling eyes that say she knows exactly how she looks right now, and exactly how it affects him.

She’s still in absolute control, he realizes. She’s highly aware that she only has to say a word, or move a certain way, and she’d have him down there with her again, doing whatever she wanted, whatever she asked.

But she doesn’t. She sticks to the rules of her game. He has to admire her commitment—and again, he quietly thanks his former self for his patience, for waiting long enough to see this side of her.

He has to schedule another session with her. He needs to see more sides of this woman. He wants her towering over him in absolute control, wants her soft and loving, wants her wild and chaotic, wants _her_ , in every shade that she’ll let him see.

The girlfriend experience. That was something Sabrina had offered, during his initial conversation with her. He wonders if this woman offers that. If she would…pretend such things, with him.

He thinks of the start of the evening. Being greeted by her in black lace. Being handed a glass of wine as she quietly admitted that she’d had a tough day. Even if it was a single session of pure fantasy, he thinks he likes the idea of it.

Another time, he promises himself. For now, they have their current game. She’s finishing the last bit of sweeping, and he leans in, offering to take the dustpan. She hands it to him, and then he uses his other hand to help her up. She’s a bit wobbly, even more susceptible to a lack of circulation due to her heels, no doubt. It gives him the perfect excuse to stand behind her and wrap his arm around her waist fully, to pull her in and gently whisper, “Very, very good.”

She turns her head further into his lips, and he obliges with a small kiss on her temple. Her hand strokes over his hand, still on her stomach, her fingertips soft and grateful.

He waits just a beat, accepting her affection (is she like this, with all her clients, is he special, is he a fool for hoping?). Then he brings his hand around, to the small of her back, gently prompting her forward.

She doesn’t need instruction now. She moves slowly—not out of hesitation, but simply because she doesn’t want to move too far away, to move out of his touch—and he doesn’t mind the slower pace. The feeling of something new building between them only intensifies once they reach the kitchen again.

When she bends over to put the broom and pan back underneath the sink, mimicking their earlier positions, he remembers just how much he wanted her, just like this, before, when he couldn’t give in.

He puts his hand on her spine again, quietly commands, “Stay.”

She does. He can see the way her ribs expand, the deep breath she takes, as if steeling herself.

He considers exactly what to do next. Considers exactly what he wants, what she wants, too. The whole scene itself revolved around her cleaning up the stupid glass, and now it’s done.

Now they can simply…enjoy, he thinks.

“No more incentives,” he promises warmly, leaning in to brush his lips against her ear again. “Just rewards for good behavior. Which means no more acting up.”

She nods, quickly and emphatically. She’s practically vibrating again, her entire body taut as a bowstring.

Poor thing, he thinks affectionately. Given her surprise every time he resisted her charms, she’s probably not used to actually playing this long, much less waiting to have her needs satisfied (truth be told, neither is he, and he feels a ridiculous amount of pride about being able to resist this long, particularly against _this_ woman). He feels a genuine flash of pity, too—because he thinks that a woman like her deserves someone who will hold out like this, who will let her truly play and exhaust herself.

He reminds himself that he doesn’t actually know what kind of woman she is. He doesn’t even know her name.

He does know that she’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen, and that she’s certainly earned a mind-blowing release—and he’s gonna do everything within his power to give her just that.

Right now, he’s still leaning over her—her shoulder is right by his mouth, and it needs to be kissed, so he does just that. He feels just how tense she is—and also, somehow, just how close to physical collapse. He stands up fully, letting his left hand slip under her stomach, holding her steady. His right hand keeps migrating further south, over the curve of her ass, back to the place that he already knows will be even more drenched than the last time he touched her there.

The lace strip covering her cunt is absolutely soaked, and he can’t stop the growl of approval slipping out of his throat. He feels her stomach push against his left hand, a heavy exhale, as he pulls back the lace and lets his fingertips sink into wet heat.

She makes a small noise, hands slapping onto the counter for support—he immediately tightens his hold around her waist and feels a measure of pride at the way she relaxes back into it, fully certain that he’ll keep her steady.

His cock tightens at the feeling of her, as his fingers push further in. She lets out a long, low moan, muscles instantly clenching around him and nearly short-circuiting his brain.

“Fuck,” he breathes, drawing out and pushing in again, this time curling his fingers. Her whole body jolts and her heels skitter a little on the tiled floor, but he keeps her on her feet and firmly in his grasp.

He doesn’t think he’s ever been this wholly in control before. He’s not even sure that she’s actually doing anything to keep herself from melting into he floor—she’s letting her weight settle into his grip, fully trusting that he’ll keep her safe and secure. She’s not giving directions or even trying to push further into to his touch. She’s simply…letting him. Trusting him to do whatever he wants. It’s a heady feeling.

He wants to prove that trust is well-given. Even though he already knows the answer, he feels the need to gently ask, “Do you feel…exhausted?”

“Yes." She sounds completely strung out. He grins to himself, continuing the slow, steady movement of his hand. Fucking hell, he can hear her, hear the sound his fingers make, sliding in and out of her.

He feels another wave of adoration for the woman literally in his arms. Feels a measure of pride in his own self, for being able to bring her to such a state. He still wants to shower her with words of encouragement and affection, but he feels like…he has to keep it within the confines of the scene.

So he takes a sterner tone, just for a moment. “So you’ll behave?”

“I’ll behave.” Her voice is slightly higher pitched, almost a whine. He curls his fingers just a bit more, presses his knuckles a bit more firmly into the spot that has her shuddering, another rush of wetness coating his fingers.

He lets all the affection he feels push out into two simple words. “Good girl.”

He’s waited as long as he could. He slips his hand out of her, gently shifting behind her again to pull her up to her full height. She almost swoons, and he realizes the blood rush, along with the time spent crouching in those heels, have been a bit too much for her. She sags against his chest a little, and he truly realizes just how exhausted she is.

He needs to get this woman into bed, in more ways than one, he decides. The fantasy of fucking over the sink will have to wait another day.

But she’s more of a trooper than he gives her credit for—she’s turning her head slightly, and her whole body stills when she sees his right hand, still glistening with her own wetness.

He considers the idea. Sees, shining in her own expressive eyes, something very similar to his own thought—as if to punctuate the point, her delicious mouth pops open, ever-so-slightly.

Still, he moves slowly, giving her plenty of time to shift away—or at least indicate that she isn’t interested. But instead, she leans in, just slightly, just enough to encourage him. He brings his fingertips to her lips and she hums in a deep, warm way that makes his head spin. He can’t even blink, completely transfixed as she takes his fingers in her mouth. Her tongue, strong and certain, pushes between his fingers, and he hears himself giving a low exhale as his entire body tightens in shock and want. He feels the light pull of teeth, the way she savors the feeling of his fingertips between them before pulling away entirely.

Fucking hell and heaven, too. He pulls her into a kiss, nearly going dizzy at the new taste on her lips, the hungry way she returns the kiss as she turns further into him.

With a sudden jolt of chagrin, he realizes that his hand, once in her hair, is now resting on the side of her neck—not really choking her, but still holding her, still close enough to potentially be discomforting. He pulls away as quickly as he can.

He feels her smile against his lips as she grabs his shirt, diving deeper into his mouth. He holds her wrists, gently encouraging her (yes, grasping, he wants her grasping and ready to beg, wants her just like this, just this passionate and eager).

He also wants _her_. He’s literally aching with just how desperately he needs to be inside her, how much he needs to feel the weight of her shifting underneath him, needs to hear her pleading and panting and begging for more.

He pulls away from the kiss, and she does as well. She takes a beat to look at him—again, her big brown eyes speak multitudes, and everything they say is both entirely profane and extremely close to exactly what he’s feeling and thinking, too.

He can’t help but grin.

“Bed.” He decrees.

She nods in curt agreement. Again, despite his fears over her being completely exhausted, she whirls on her heel and moves forward with absolute energy and enthusiasm.

By the time she’s actually crawling onto the bed (holy fucking hell, that ass, it’s enough to make a man sing praises), he knows that he’ll do absolutely anything to have this, have her, again. He’ll find a second fucking job, just to afford as many nights with her as possible, if need be.

She lays down on her stomach, just as he asked—he needs a moment to simply be able to look at her, without those eyes watching him back, without worrying that he’s doing something wrong. He still doesn’t know if there are rules, unspoken boundaries, but he feels like maybe he keeps pushing it almost too far, making it almost too intimate.

He thinks of how direct she was, at the beginning. If she had a problem with something, she wouldn’t hesitate to state it, he reminds himself. For now, whatever’s happening between them is mutual. He forces himself to focus on that, on the woman laying in front of him (an easy distraction, sure enough).

Gods above, what fabulous legs she has. Though they must be screaming from those heels. Almost without thinking, he slips the shoes off her feet. Her toes wiggle happily and it’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen, he thinks. He lets his hands run up her calves, which are also flexing as her feet still relish their new-found freedom.

He takes a beat to simply stare at the way her whole body shifts as he slowly pushes her knees wider apart.

He already wants this again. But there is a chance that he won’t get what he wants—so he should make the most of the time he’s been given now, he decides. He slowly climbs onto the bed, thinking of the way she looked leaning forward to clean up the glass, the way he wanted to map every inch of her back with his tongue.

He gently brushes her hair out of the way, delicately pulls the lace straps off her shoulders and further down her arms. She shivers in response. She has her face turned to the side, and the one eye he can see closes softly.

He enjoys every inch that’s on display, feeling a measure of delight at the way her body tenses and shifts beneath his lips. He can hear her breathing, almost panting with want—but she doesn’t tell him to stop, or to hurry up, or to do anything at all. She simply lets him take his fill. And yes, he knows that in a way, she’s just doing her job ( _talk about achieving excellence in one’s chosen field, ye gods_ ), but he still feels the desire to…thank her, to reward her in some way.

His mind echoes his thought from just a few minutes earlier—she deserves a mind-blowing release. He instinctively knows that once he finally truly gets inside her, he won’t be able to stop himself. So he needs to take the time now, before, to make sure she’s been given everything she deserves. And just like during the game, he tells himself that a little extra patience and restraint on his part will lead to a greater something more, just around the bend. He knows this beyond all doubt now.

He lays down on her left side, feeling another warm ripple for the way she turns her head towards him, the way her whole body snuggles closer to his, seeking him out. He curls in closer, too, letting his right hand move back between her thighs as his lips enjoy the warmth of her neck.

She’s moaning softly and he hasn’t actually touched her. There so much need in the small sound, he answers with a warm hum of his own. She widens her thighs, making it easier for him to find her clit through the lace and the slick heat beneath it.

She’s whining and huffing with every stroke, and he thinks, _holy fuck_ , this is better than the begging he’d imagined. Because she _is_ begging, pleading and unable to form words, so overwhelmed with desperation and need.

She shifts, burying her face into the mattress, shoulders curling inward, almost as if she wants to hide (yes, he thinks smugly, he’s at least different from her other clients in some way, because she doesn’t allow herself to act like this with others, he thinks, he hopes).

“Don’t hide." He's more than willing to beg on this part himself. He leans in, kissing just behind her ear. “Let me hear you.”

He can’t stop himself from grinding against her hip, easing some of the tension created by the delicious sounds she’s making, the way she’s shifting her legs wider and lifting her hips, opening herself up for more of him.

Trust, he thinks again, a bit numbly. He realizes the one last thing he wants from this session: to feel her truly give herself over, because she trusts him, because she knows that he’s safe, he’ll take care of her in more ways than just physical.

He has the right to ask, he knows. It’s his session. Still, he can’t quite force himself to make demands (that defeats the whole purpose of having her trust him, having her want to give him these things, of her own free will).

“I think we can agree the game is fully played,” he states quietly, almost afraid of breaking the spell. He takes a beat to make sure she’s actually listening. “I just have one last request.”

She turns her face to meet his gaze again, those big brown eyes still shining with curiosity beneath the haze of lust. Even now, when she’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, she’s somehow…adorable.

“Will you let me do what I’ve been wanting to do to you, since I first saw you in the hallway?”

She makes a small, needy noise of agreement, head barely shifting in an attempted nod.

He can’t help but grin—a little bit of relief as well as delight at her whole-hearted agreement. He sees the way those eyes widen, just a little. Just how alert they are, how hungry they get at the sight of his smile.

He thinks of her reaction, when he first asked her if she wanted to be good for him. Thinks, maybe, that’s what really does it for her—praise and adoration, two things he can easily and ecstatically pour over her.

He tests the waters. Leans in a little more to kiss her deliciously bare shoulder again and decree, “Good girl.”

She shivers and makes another little desperate noise.

 _Yep. Called it_ , he thinks smugly. But he also hurts a little. She’s got a strong streak in her, the kind that certain types of men love to break. He wonders if that’s how the majority of these games end ( _don’t you want to punish me for behaving so badly?_ her voice echoes in his head, and he wonders how many of her clients would do just that), if more often than not, she’s a thing to be broken instead of built up.

He has to be different, he reminds himself. He wants to be different. He knows he’s being ridiculous, in a way, caring so much over a situation that might not even actually exist.

The situation might not exist. But the look in her eye when he praises her certainly does. If nothing else, he’s at least giving her what she wants.

He angles himself so that he can fully watch her face as he quietly speaks, “You like that, don’t you? You like being told what a good girl you are.”

Her cheeks flush but her eyes never leave his. He’s struck by the sheer vulnerability radiating from them, nearly drowning him with the depth of their emotion.

“Yes,” she admits, in a voice so small that he immediately wants to wrap her in his arms. Instead, he merely shifts again, moving so that their noses are touching, just barely, as he puts a little more pressure into the finger still stroking her clit, which makes her shift and nuzzle against him further as she moans.

“Such a good girl,” he decrees. She whimpers. The sound alone nearly blows his mind. It’s suddenly absolutely effortless to keep going, to slip into whatever little fantasy she needs and wants. “Open up and let me reward you for being so good.”

Her legs instantly shift wider and he stifles a chuckle at her immediate obedience ( _oh, how far we’ve come, love_ ). He merely hums in approval, watching the way she watches him, eager for more.

“You were right,” he admits with a grin. “You can be very, very good.”

She grins back at him now, a sharpness to her smile that makes his heart skip a beat. She could still absolutely devour him whole, he thinks. But she trusts him enough to simply lay here and do what he wants.

She’s so close, he can feel the wave rising in her, radiating through her entire frame.

He can’t help himself. “When you want to be, at least. And you want to be good, don’t you? You want to show me just how good you can be—”

She lets out a low, shaking moan, closing her eyes as her body curls into the mattress. Her face shifts and turns, pressing further into the comforter.

He strokes her harder and nuzzles further into her neck again, quietly commanding, “Show me, love. Show me.”

That’s all it takes. She’s shaking and crying out, muffled by the mattress beneath her open mouth. Her hips are lifting, seeking out more of him, and he keeps going, keeps pushing her until she shatters completely—he brings his whole body even more firmly against her, feeling a ripple of fire through his veins in response to her shuddering.

She finally goes still and silent, those delicious shoulders heaving with deep, grateful breaths.

He offers one last _good girl_ , one last beat the relish the solidness of her, almost completely beneath him. But he’s really waited as long as he can—it’s almost painful, just how much he needs her, needs to release his own tension and desire.

He gets back on his own two feet, gets himself ready—he could climb back onto the bed, spread her legs wider and have her just like this, he thinks. But he wants to see those beautiful eyes again. Wants to truly watch her.

So he prompts her to turn to face him and his lungs nearly forget to breath when she does, grinning softly. She looks like a hurricane in human form, tousled hair and smudged lipstick and dark eyes, still hungry and eager. Her breasts are finally out of the lace and they look like the softest, most biteable things he’s ever seen, and a primal part of him wants to leave marks on them. He pulls her in closer, has her exactly like that, feeling a measure of relief at the warmth and weight of her, tightening around his cock.

Would he love to slowly fuck her back into a frazzle? Absolutely. Is he in any way capable of doing that right now? Absolutely not. Her hips are soft and solid between his hands, her thighs tightening around him as her hands flex deeper into the mattress (and just over her head, an arc of lipstick marks left on the stark white comforter, from when he had her moaning, just moments ago, another heated reminder that only increases the tension building in his hips). He can’t do anything but ache for all of it, all of her.

She’s making more noise, this time without the mattress to muffle her sounds. It only makes him push harder, desperate for more.

This is better than begging, he thinks again. She’s absolutely feral and he’s absolutely enamored by it (will she be like this, every time? will he be given the chance to know for sure?).

She comes again and it’s like watching a bomb explode in slow motion. Then, before he can fully recover from witnessing the sight, she’s widening her thighs, letting him get deeper inside her.

And then—miraculously, gloriously then—she blows his mind further.

She starts begging.

“Please,” she huffs, locking her eyes onto him. “Please, don’t stop—don’t—”

She does it so prettily, so desperate and overwhelmed and so beyond anything he could have hoped for, or even imagined. He nearly shatters then and there. Again, he thinks, if he’d asked her to beg, it wouldn’t have been this earnest, this amazing.

But he didn’t ask. And yet, she’s still giving him exactly what he wants, what he needs in ways he can’t quite explain.

“Oh, yes, please—don’t stop, please, _more_.” She’s sitting up slightly, those dark eyes watching him slide into her with rapt fascination—she’s simply watching him fuck her, with a kind of reverent wonder, as if she can’t quite believe it’s actually happening. The sheer eroticism of her unrepentant staring makes him move faster, harder, watching the way her body bounces and shifts with each thrust of his hips.

Her pleading gets interrupted by another orgasm as she snaps back into the mattress, pushing through her own pleasure to keep begging. Feeling her hips lifting and shifting in his hands as she tightens around his cock is the final straw, and he’s coming, too, with the kind of intensity that nearly blacks out his vision.

He releases her hips, propping his hands on the bed to keep from collapsing onto her completely. She hums and shifts, the movement pulling at his still-sensitive cock, still buried as deeply inside her as possible.

He’d pay any price to spend his days like this, he thinks. Exactly like this. He wants to lean in, to press his tongue against the smooth strip between her breasts and taste the first hint of sweat that’s sheening on her skin, to bite and suck and sample every inch of her body. But…the session is over now, isn’t it? Is that allowed?

He lets his gaze flick further up, to her face, still flushed and beaming in a kind of soft, golden way that makes his heart skip a beat.

“You really are exhausting.” He finds the words slipping out before he can consider it. He gently pulls out of her, loving the sound of her thighs solidly hitting the mattress as she releases her grip around him. He wore her out, he knows, and he feels a measure of pride at the thought.

She giggles in response, and his head spins at the sound. She gives a wry, lopsided grin that does nothing to help his fluttering heart. “I told you—I drive men to drink.”

There have to be rules, he thinks. Certain lines he can’t quite cross, now that technically, the point of the whole session is over. He doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to do anything that would ruin his chances of having this again, having _her_ again.

But he can’t quite bring himself to ask, not like this. He doesn’t really want to point out the less intimate side of this business, doesn’t quite want to break the spell of the moment. Again, he thinks this is a request he must put to Sabrina first. So he merely grins, noting that she’s also shifting slightly, as if slipping back into reality as well.

He heads to the bathroom, pulls off the condom and cleans himself up a bit—he spies a mark of lipstick on his collarbone, decides to let it stay a little while longer. With a slight smile, he grabs his phone off the bathroom counter before heading back into the bedroom to get dressed—and along with it, the plain white envelope he’d set beneath it.

He’s not sure about this next part. How does he actually pay her? Does he leave it on the bed, on the table in the foyer? Does he hand it to her directly? Which is more insulting? Which is the thing that would upset her, which should he avoid?

He glances over to see her crouched over a briefcase (fucking hell, that teddy complements her at every angle). It seems like a sign. She’s rising to her feet and there’s an odd sense of expectancy. He shifts a bit closer, ready to hand over the envelope.

Except when she turns around, she’s holding a similar one.

Her dark eyes register his envelope, and her brows quirk in absolute confusion.

She speaks the thought flashing through his head:

“Wait, _what_?”


	3. Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk gang. It got more feels-y than I originally planned, but you know how these two idiots get.  
> Come scream in my inbox on tumblr bc I'm kind of not over this idea, ngl.

A full beat passes between them.

“I’m…sorry,” he says, face still twisting in confusion. “Did I—did I do something wrong?”

“What?” She blinks. Numbly she thinks it would be impossible for this man to do anything _wrong_. He’s spent the entire session being screamingly _right_.

He makes a small gesture with his hands. “I’ve just—I've never done this, you know.”

“What?” She feels like an idiot, but she literally cannot process the situation any better. Her mind is still reeling.

This is when he begins to realize that somehow, something is wrong. But maybe she’s just confused—she probably has a lot of clients, a lot of appointments. Maybe she’s gotten him mixed up with someone else. Maybe there’s something else, some extra step Sabrina forgot to tell him about.

“I told you,” he points out, the sense of dread twisting in his stomach. “In the emails.”

Her face answers his unspoken question as it quirks into an expression of utter confusion. “What fucking _emails_?”

“You’re not from the Aretuza Agency?” It’s not really a question at this point. But how did he get this wrong? He showed up at the right address, used the right key code…how is she not the one he was supposed to meet tonight?

She blinks as if he’s slapped her in the face. “Do I _look_ like an escort to you?”

“I mean….” He can’t help but motion down the length of that still insanely attractive body, still barely covered in black lace.

Her cheeks flush. He isn’t sure if she’s angry, embarrassed, or flattered.

Suddenly he realizes: “Wait. So you thought _I_ was an escort?”

Her blush deepens. Dammit, she should have known this was too good to be true. It’s gone from one of the best nights of her life to one of her worst.

She tries to seem less affected. To give a small shrug of her shoulder. “You knew the access code, you somewhat fit the description I requested—why wouldn’t I think that?”

He holds open his hands a small gesture of _alright, valid point_.

“So wait…” The reality sinks into her gut. “We’re both…clients?”

He blinks, silently agreeing while still being slightly surprised by the answer.

She turns and crouches again, scooping her phone out of her briefcase. He looks away, suddenly embarrassed at how openly he's looked at her before.

Still, she has a good idea. He turns his phone on as well.

Both of their devices start buzzing with notifications.

She takes a deep breath and taps on the new voicemail notification.

It’s Sabrina. “Fiona, I am so sorry about the mix-up. Apparently there was some kind of fluke in the scheduling system. Please call me as soon as you can. We'll do whatever is necessary to make this right.”

Her gaze slides over to the man across the room, who is currently frowning down at his own phone. Fuck, even now he looks handsome. He's currently wearing nothing but his underwear and a slash of her lipstick across his collarbone and fucking hell, it’s a great look for him.

She really would have liked having that around, thanks to the imaginary arrangement she’d concocted while he was busy fucking her into the next century. But now that can never be. She inwardly aches a little at the loss. It would have been good, she thinks. _He_ would have been good.

He glances up at her, and fire floods through her chest at the directness of his gaze.

“You got the call from Sabrina, too?” He guesses.

She gives a small, single nod. Her throat feels too dry to speak. She wars between wanting to cry and wanting to outright vomit. She’s not sure that she’s ever been in a more humiliating situation, and she’s fucking livid at a universe that allowed this to happen, that gave her something mind-blowing and then ruined it with this awful twist of fate.

She looks so small, so small and embarrassed. He never wants her to look like that, to look at him with such wary worry, as if she fears his reaction.

So he takes a breath and gives a small, hopeful grin. “Well, I guess at least we both saved a couple hundred bucks tonight.”

She surprises herself with her own laugh, a single, sharp sound that’s far too loud for the stillness.

His smile deepens, obviously pleased, and fucking hell her hips are not following current events because they still flash with heat at that smile, at the memory of it in far different context, just a few minutes earlier.

“Sorry.” His voice goes a bit softer, a bit uncertain again. “I don’t…I'm not sure what to do, at this point.”

“Me, either,” she admits.

A beat passes. They merely watch each other, as if meeting for the first time.

“So, um, Eist.” He takes a step forward, bridging the gap. He offers his hand, as if to shake. The formality of it amuses her. He's adorable, she decides.

His expression suddenly quirks in chagrin, like he’s realized how ridiculous his actions are, and she immediately floods with a warm desire to make him feel at-ease again (he’s trying, gods above, to lessen the tension, to make this something kinder, something less awful, and she truly does adore him for it).

So she meets him halfway, extending her hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Calanthe.”

He repeats her name softly, as if testing it on his tongue. She’s always thought it was a bit too frilly (her grandmother’s name, far more than her own), but she thinks it sounds absolutely perfect when he says it. His hand holds hers a beat longer than necessary, but she doesn’t mind. They’re a bit past personal space and impropriety, she supposes.

Still, she can’t help but tease, “Great name for a call girl, eh?”

Eist hums in amusement. She’s still obviously uneasy, but there is a little hint of mischief in her eye. He deeply, deeply regrets that he can’t ever have another session with her.

She withdraws her hand, tucks her hair behind her ear. “I feel—have you—you’ve never…”

She makes a small, quick coughing sound, as if clearing her throat. “ _Played_ like that before, I assume?”

“Never,” he admits softly. His tone is tinged with a kind of wonder, still fond and adoring ( _good girl_ , her mind repeats, and dammit, her oblivious hips go into overdrive).

Eist feels a wave of worry. Her little addition of _I assume_ implied that perhaps, in some way, his inexperience was obvious. But then her brows lift in a little expression of impressed surprise and he feels a warmth flooding his chest. Good. It truly was a mutually rewarding thing, then.

He likes the idea of being able to impress her. He goes over the memory of this evening, now with the knowledge that none of her reaction was a performance. She wasn’t doing anything because it was her job. She genuinely enjoyed herself, enjoyed _him_.

Holy hell, Calanthe thinks. He had never done this before, and yet, he played along so beautifully. Better than the professionals. The man has a gift. Intuitive, inventive—if he were a piece of technology, she’d snap him up for an immediate company merger or even an outright takeover. You don’t see something like that and not try to put some kind of stake in it, to buy it out so that no one else can have it.

But he’s not a shiny new gadget or an innovative processing system. He’s human, with his very-much-alive beating heart, standing right beside her.

She closes her eyes lightly at all the ways she balked and acted like a brat. He’d truly not signed up for that, had not been able to truly consent to what was happening. She feels embarrassed (she _broke a glass_ , like an absolute maniac, why oh why did she push so far, so quickly?).

“Well,” she sighs a bit, shifting just a little so that more of her shoulder is towards him, instead of facing him completely. “You certainly were not expecting…the events of this evening, then. I must have been a bit overwhelming, I do apologize.”

“Only in the best of ways,” he assures her. She blushes, presses her lips into a line as if to hide a smile. He can't stop himself from smiling softly. “Certainly no apology necessary.”

“I guess…better luck next time?” She looks back up at him, tilts her head to the side a bit.

They both think of earlier in the evening, when Eist said those exact same words. Both remember it rather fondly, and quite warmly.

“I don’t think there'll be a next time,” he confesses quietly. She looks at him again, expressive eyes lined with curiosity, and he’s helpless to do anything but answer their unspoken question. “I—this was just for research, in a way. It’s…a long story.”

She merely hums. As if somehow she understands.

“But, if it’s any compliment—I was deeply considering becoming a repeat customer.” He offers a grin, hopes it isn’t too strong, too sleazy, too anything that might make her recoil.

Wonder of all wonders, she blushes deeply, from the tips of her ears all the way across that delicious chest. She looks insanely pleased, and again, he loves the idea of being able to make her smile like that.

Her chest feels a little too tight. She wants to agree, to confess that she, too, was already working out the logistics of having more of him, a lot more often. But she can’t quite bring herself to say it aloud. Still, she looks up and offers an grin.

They’re sharing another secret, she thinks. Another little moment, just between the two of them.

She…likes the idea. Of having things that are shared, just with him. She isn’t sure she’ll be able to open up like this with any of Sabrina’s actual employees. She’s certain she’ll never be able to outright ask for softness and praise—and as of right now, history has proven that they won’t pick up on what she actually wants and needs. Not like he has.

With a jolt of clarity, Eist watches her conspiratorial smirk and realizes that she’d had a similar thought—Calanthe, this absolute sexual hurricane, wanted more of _him_. Fucking hell, that’s a lovely admission. He knew the attraction had been mutual. But now he knows that the desire for more is, too.

Suddenly, he wonders if maybe, she is _exactly_ the one he was supposed to meet tonight.

She dips her head, assumes a neutral tone. “Well, tonight’s quite literal epic clusterfuck aside, I will say Aretuza is a solid agency, if you ever do decide to try again. I’m sure Sabrina could find you some lovely partners.”

Her chest catches at the thought of him, doing the same thing with other women. It hadn't bothered her before, when she thought he was the one getting paid to do it—but the idea that he would have to pay, when she'd gladly pay him for it? It hits a bit differently, for some reason.

He watches her expressive eyes cloud with some unreadable emotion as her brows quirk downwards (gods on high, she’s endlessly fascinating, he realizes, he could just watch her think for hours).

“I’m sure you could find someone a bit—” She gently places her hands over her stomach, as if shielding herself from a blow. “Younger. Someone—”

“Younger?” He balks at the idea. “Why wouldn’t I want someone exactly like—”

_You_. He doesn’t actually say it, but Calanthe hears it, all the same. Hears exactly how he would say it, if he did utter the word out loud. Soft and reverent and with absolute sincerity. The same way he called her _love_ and _good girl_ , the same way he whispered all the other tender little things he said, throughout the night.

Eist is afraid he’s crossed a line. He knows that she enjoyed their time together when it was happening—but he doesn’t fully know how she actually feels _right now_ (he isn’t sure if she knows, either, given the myriad of emotions he’s watched roll across her endlessly fascinating face). Then those big brown eyes blink back up at him again, and he swears his heart melts straight to the floor.

The need to reassure her rushes through his chest like a tidal wave. He speaks long before he thinks, “I mean, you are—you look—my first thought, when I saw you, was that any man would happily pay twice the price just to look at you, much less—”

He realizes how it sounds. Tries to dig himself out of his current hole. “I mean, it’s not just your body—your personality—”

“You don’t know a damn thing about my personality,” she counters, but gently, not unkindly. “We’re absolute strangers.”

“We’ve _literally_ been intimate,” he returns. “I think I can safely say I know a few things about you, at least.”

Her eyebrows lift to impressive heights.

He motions back to the rest of the bedroom, the rest of the apartment, the rest of the places they played together. “You can’t tell me that all of that was an act. Some of your true self was in there.”

Calanthe flushes again, and her throat tightens. He has a point. With another warm ripple of realization, she understands that by that same token, she saw some of his true self, too.

The tenderness, she thinks immediately. None of that was feigned in the least.

She…aches, at the realization. At the thought that somehow, he was able to be this gentle, this kind, to a complete stranger. At the soft gentle question that her mind echoes: _what would he be like, once he knows you? How much deeper would the tenderness go?_

“And I can honestly say that I saw enough to want to know more,” Eist admits quietly. His heart is a bit loud, he thinks, pounding in his ears. Surely she can hear it too.

She looks up, eyes widening again in a positively adorable look of surprise.

“Oh.” She says softly, in that low, almost rasp that makes even such a simple sound seem completely profane.

The whole world goes still, at that sound. It’s possibility and potential and everything and anything and _something_ worth pursuing, he thinks.

He decides to take a risk. It’s actually not that late, he realizes. And it’s the beginning of the weekend—most of the nice restaurants are open later now.

“Would you—would you consider joining me for dinner?”

What the _literal,_ _actual_ fuck, she thinks. He's serious.

“Like…a date?” She clarifies. Slowly, cautiously, a bit incredulously, as if he’s handed her a snake and called it a rose.

“Only if you want it to be,” he returns softly. “Otherwise, it can simply be a thanks-for-a-good-time parting gift.”

She feels one corner of her mouth lifting into a smile. He isn’t asking for anything more than exactly as much as she wants to give, why isn’t she surprised?

He’s watching her with such studied neutrality, but she can see the hopefulness shining in his ( _still absolutely heart-stopping_ ) blue eyes.

Blue as the night skyline, when she'd looked out her car window and thought that anything could happen, on a night like tonight.

Maybe anything _could_ happen.

She might still be able to have it all, she thinks, a bit foolishly, a bit recklessly.

Can’t know until you try.

“I don’t really do dating,” she admits. His expression falls, briefly, but he covers it quickly and simply nods. Her heart clenches in affection—yes, this is why she trusted him, why she still does, despite hardly knowing him at all.

Her mind echoes the same thing it commanded, when she first heard him walk through the door: _Be direct_. _You deserve exactly what you want, no exceptions_.

After all, what is there to lose? Not much.

And what is there to gain? So much.

Eist tries to swallow the bitterness in his throat. He saw the shine in her eyes and had hoped that it meant something good. Still, he tried.

“But.” Her tone is careful, edged with an almost-coyness that has him looking up at her again. Those dark eyes are warm, corners crinkling in lazy amusement, even though the rest of her body hums with an almost-anxious energy. “Before we figured out the truth, I was more than willing to reserve the pleasure of your…company, three nights a week, plus entire weekends.”

His eyebrows practically disappear into his hairline at that, and his jaw softly drops open. She wants to giggle, to laugh at his sheer adorableness. Instead, she takes another slight breath and pushes to close the deal (yes, this is a merger, of sorts, she decides, she can make it work). “I can’t promise dating, but I'll gladly promise some more mind-blowing sex on an extremely frequent schedule.”

She lets the offer hang in the air for a beat. Eist is torn between being convinced that this is a dream and praying that he never actually wakes, if it is.

Then Calanthe shrugs theatrically, giving a slight wave of her hand, “So, if, perhaps, you were amenable to such—”

“Absolutely.” His heart is hammering in his ears again, to the point he almost can’t hear his own voice as he speaks. This is…astoundingly beyond anything he'd imagined. He thinks of three evenings a week. Coming home to this, to her. Entire weekends— _entire_ , the thought makes his head spin.

She hums in approval. Her eyes scan the ceiling. She could rent this place, let it become their personal little love nest.

_Not love_ , she stops herself from getting too far ahead. But…a convenient meet-up location for some off-the-charts equally-rewarding sex.

Those types of details are for later, she decides. For now, she needs to know that this can work—that _they_ can work, outside of one strange encounter in which they thought each other was someone else entirely, with entirely different motives.

“Good,” she decrees simply. Then, with a smile, she adds, “We should definitely go out to celebrate.”

“Of course,” he agrees. Holds out his hands In askance. “Drinks? Dinner?”

“Breakfast.”

It takes him a beat. But her wicked grin definitely clues him in.

She has no intention of leaving this apartment until morning, he suddenly realizes, with a flash of heated delight.

“Breakfast it is,” he agrees, moving closer.

Her hand on his chest lightly stops him.

She shifts a bit closer, tilting her chin up towards him (she’s so much shorter, without her heels, he definitely looms over her now), feeling a measure of anticipation at the way he watches her in rapt attention.

Her chest tightens in soft delight again. Yes, he’s quite lovely. He’d do anything she asked, she knows.

“New game, new rules,” she says softly. Her grin widens as the sudden light in his eyes, his immediate desire to play with her again. “This time, _you_ have to earn it.”

His brows quirk downward as he quietly admits, “I’m afraid I couldn’t even pretend to want to disobey.”

Eist feels a light flutter of anxiety (has he already failed her, before they’ve even truly had a chance to begin?). But then she smirks in absolute knowing, as if she had never expected any other response from him.

“You don’t have to.” She finds it easy to be soft, to be kind, almost. And she means her words, every ounce of them. He let her simply be however she wanted, in their first little game. Never forced her into a situation or a role that she didn’t want, let her show a side of herself that was still genuine, in some way. How could she ever do anything but allow him the same courtesy?

He doesn’t seem the type who needs to act out. He seems loving and kind, someone eager to please—she can play with that, can play to that.

“In fact.” She lets her hand slip further down his chest, relishing the solid warmth beneath her palm. “I’d prefer you to be a very, very good boy for me.”

He grins, a mixture of delight and relief washing over his handsome features (and she marvels at it, at him, at how he can be absolutely adorable and scintillatingly sexy at the exact same time).

“I’ll be the very best boy you've ever seen,” he promises warmly.

She finds herself grinning so deeply that her cheeks twinge.

“Oh,” she rasps, nuzzling against his collarbone. “Of that I have no doubt.”

He waits. She smiles.

“Kiss me,” she whispers, her whole body already aching in anticipation. She punctuates the command with a small kiss of her own, against his skin. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

That’s permission and direction enough, he decides. He lets his left hand slip to the back of her head, lightly tugging at her hair, directing that adorable smirk back up to meet his mouth as his right hand moves around her hip, grabbing her ass and pulling her fully into him. He can feel her rising up on her tip-toes to meet him, humming in warm approval at his efforts.

Yes, she thinks, a bit hazily. He really is the best boy she’s ever seen.

He just might be absolutely perfect.

She feels electric in his arms, her hands coming up to run through his hair, holding him in place as she continues kissing him. _Kiss me like you mean it_ , she said—and he feels just how much she means it, too.

Then she breaks away, practically dancing out of his grasp with sparkling eyes and a little smirk that makes his heart skip a beat.

She keeps her gaze locked on him as she keeps slowly moving backwards, further away, back to the side of the bed. He waits, so eager to play the game properly, to prove that he can be worth the time she's offering to him (three nights a week, plus full weekends—holy hell, he had been willing to settle for maybe a few extra sessions, willing to take such smaller crumbs of her time and energy and attention, it feels a bit like winning a lottery with a far richer prize).

Those dark eyes turn from smiling to smoldering as she gently reaches up, pulling the straps of her teddy off her shoulders again. She keeps his gaze as she pushes it further down her body, as she leans down to pick it up off the floor.

Then, with delicate theatricality, she holds up the black lace as she rises to her full height again—only to drop it, right in front of her feet.

“Would you come pick that up, please?” She never says please, never uses such a soft tone, and yet—here she is, finding herself being the politest she’s ever been (it’s his fault, he just looks so soft and eager, she can’t help but want to watch him smile, to encourage him to be exactly as he is now).

He moves forward slowly, but not hesitantly. He's simply…taking his time as he looks at her, taking her in from head to toe. She tries not to shiver but she sees his little grin and knows that he's seen it anyways.

“How are your knees?” She asks suddenly.

Eist truly considers the question. “In pretty solid condition, I think.”

She gives a breathless smile of relief and he already knows that even if he had the worst knees in the world, he'd still gladly be down on them, if it earned him that smile.

Understanding the reason for her query, he sinks to the knees in question to pick up the black lace pooled at her feet.

Her stance widens, just slightly. He glances up, feeling a little overwhelmed by the way she smiles down at him, by the way the soft swell of her abdomen rises and falls as she breathes, already so affected simply by the way he looks at her, by the way her entire body radiates with both physical and emotional warmth.

Three nights a week, plus weekends. Suddenly it doesn’t seem like nearly enough time.

Her smile fades slightly as her expression takes on a more curious air. Her hand comes up to his hair again, fingers lightly pulling through his wavy locks and finally grasping, just enough to be felt. She pulls him closer, just like in their previous game.

This time there isn’t lace—just her, just warm skin and already-messy thighs. But he doesn’t dive in, doesn’t do anything until she tells him to ( _rules_ , and _roles_ —it's so much more rewarding, when he plays the game the way she wants, he knows this beyond all doubt now).

Calanthe feels the tension thrumming through his whole body. The soft inhale he takes, the exhale rippling warmly across her thighs and making her go tighter and heavier with want She feels the way he waits, the way his jaw tenses against her inner thigh, so desperate for more. Still, he waits.

“Kiss me,” she says again, hardly able to breathe. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

His hands come up to the backs of her thighs again, but it’s still not enough to truly keep her steady—she falls back, bracing her hands on the bed behind her.

She watches him, feeling a flash of searing heat in her chest when his eyes come up to lock onto hers. She puts her weight into her right hand, letting her left come up to stroke through his hair again. The grip of his hands on her thighs tightens and the corners of his eyes smile. She grins so deeply that it goes all the way to her heart.

Then he truly shows her that he means it. She gasps and tightens her grip on his hair. She watches him, watching her, taking in her every nuance and adjusting to each little sign she gives.

_Oh_. He really is _such_ a good boy.

* * *

Sabrina and her Aretuza Agency loses a client (two, technically). Plus a secretary who apparently intentionally fucked up the booking in an attempt to play matchmaker between the two actual escorts, and who was subsequently fired for such idiocy. The apartment gets taken off the market, and within a week, Calanthe has it tastefully furnished and repainted. It looks more like a home, Eist thinks, though no one actually lives there.

Calanthe Riannon changes her work hours and is always off at 7 pm, without fail. And three days a week, she does not enter the office before 9 am. The next semester, Professor Tuirseach gives up teaching night classes, and students note that on certain weekday mornings, he seems a bit more exhausted than others. But he's still quite cheerful.

Within weeks, the pattern has already shifted. Eist is delighted to find that some nights, she isn’t waiting for him with a glass of wine and a charming smile. Sometimes she arrives after him, still frazzled from her long day.

Those nights, surprisingly, are his favorite. Because he gets to pour her wine, and curl up with her in the bed they rarely actually sleep in, and hold her close. Those nights, they take naps before they play, and he thinks this is so much closer to everything he wants from her, to everything he's always wanted, from the first night they met. They talk softly before they fall asleep, his arm around her and her hand lightly stroking over his, the way she did their very first night together, when he had hoped beyond all hope that it meant something special, something different than what she did with other non-existent clients (and he loves the reminder, because now he knows how not-so-impossible that hope was, and now he knows that yes, in some ways, she is only this tender and trusting with him).

He loves weekends, too. They rarely leave the apartment, and while a solid majority of their time is spent playing various games, there are in-between moments when things are beautifully, domestically mundane. They order dinner together and learn each others likes and dislikes outside the bedroom. They celebrate each other’s birthdays (ye gods, she makes his one that he'll never forget, and he gladly returns the favor). They even watch a movie together (alright, fine, it’s porn, and it’s abandoned halfway through because they’re laughing so hard at it—and because Calanthe has decided that she can do it better than the actors, and boy, does she prove it). They shower together and sometimes cook together (alright, fine, it’s mainly Eist cooking and Calanthe being a lovey distraction and once, yes, even a mild fire hazard). They talk, openly, in a way that he’s never truly talked about sex before—from a fulfillment standpoint. He understands what she wants, what she needs on an emotional level, and vice versa. And there’s always a little flutter of adoration, the next time they play a game and he sees a moment in which she tries to incorporate something he’s told her, something she now knows he needs in order to be truly satisfied.

They play, they explore, they do things they’ve never done before—things they’ve never trusted other partners to do. It’s not always about control or lack thereof. Sometimes it’s softer and almost loving, like when he has a tough day and she gives him a massage which ends with her simply laying atop his back, softly stroking her hands down the lengths of his arms, grounding him and comforting him. Sometimes it’s playfully ridiculous, like the evening when they’re both blindfolded and have to find each other from opposite ends of the apartment without words, when it’s not erotic but still entertaining and inventive and they still have no problem being turned on simply by the feel of each other. It’s deeper and it’s filled with the trust and vulnerability he’s craved with her, from their very first night together.

He feels a bit guilty for wanting even more. For feeling a wave of sadness, when she winks over her shoulder as she leaves, or when she tightens her grip around his hand in the elevator, a quick little _see you soon_.

Within months, the pattern changes again. Three days a week becomes every day. They don’t really make a big deal over it. It just happens almost without any discussion at all. They still play elaborate games throughout every inch of the apartment, but sometimes now they fall asleep and simply share the bed until morning. But more often than not, she still leaves before morning, still goes back home, to her real home, her real life.

He tells her that he loves her. But only when they're playing their games. She doesn’t mention it afterwards, and neither does he. But he thinks that she knows it’s more than just a line in a scene they’re creating.

And he thinks that maybe, she feels the same. She’s always touched him in an oddly reverent way, but over time, they become surer, fonder caresses. Sometimes, afterwards, if she’s the one in control, she'll simply curl up with him under the covers, wrap her legs around him and pull his head into her chest and let him slip into a sleepy haze, lulled by the beat of her heart. Another reward, he knows. Another way to give him what he wants, what he needs, without him ever having to ask. Sometimes, he feels like the way they play, the things they do and say in their games, is simply them _making love_ , on an entirely different level than everything that came before. The times when she simply holds his face in her hands and keeps her eyes locked onto his when she comes, the times afterwards when she simply walks up behind him and nuzzles into his back, nipping at his shoulderblade—he thinks it’s her way of saying the things she can’t quite say yet. It happens more and more frequently, and he becomes more and more certain.

One weekend, she changes the game again. Decides to take him to a farmers market, to simply walk around and slowly tease each other to a frazzle. He plays along. Pretends not to notice that half the time she isn’t actually teasing him at all—she's simply holding his hand, simply enjoying the day, simply being with him.

They still return to the apartment and have the kind of sex that makes them both consider giving formal apologies to the neighbors (they don’t, though, they never do), but deep down, he hopes that maybe, it’s a sign that she might want something more, too. They stand side by side at the kitchen sink afterwards, scrubbing the vegetables they bought at the market and making them into dinner. He thinks of his wish, their first night—the girlfriend experience, the pretense of husband and wife, and how this is so close, so close and yet more than and yet still not enough.

She takes him to the opera (neither one can tell you a single detail about the second act, as they were busy in the private box's inner coat room with a performance of their own), to museums (lovely makeout session in the sculpture garden, his hand up her skirt in the artefact room), to dimly-lit expensive restaurants (she gives him a handjob in their booth and takes absolutely wicked delight in whispering exactly what she wants him to do to her, once they get back to the apartment—except she calls it _home_ and he doesn’t dare correct her). Every excursion still has a very specific intent, but still, Eist finds that somehow, it’s also just a bit more than what they’ve had before. As always, he finds himself delighted at whatever part of her life and her self that she is willing to share with him.

Then comes the day: exactly one year since they met through a strange twist of fate. That night, the pattern shatters completely. They’re playing the now-familiar game that they played on the night they met—in fact, it’s almost the exact same scene verbatim (with a few fun detours). She’s being petulant and immovable, and he is loving her through it—but when it comes time to clean up the glass, she suddenly breaks into tears. After much bewilderment and soft soothing on Eist’s part, Calanthe confesses: he is more than she ever could have imagined, ever could have hoped, and she finds herself wanting him with her always and in all ways. She doesn’t want this to be an agreement or a game, doesn’t want this to simply be an interesting little detour every night before she goes home—she wants him to be her home, to be home with her.

She wants what Eist has wanted for ages now. So he kisses her temple and assures her that she can have whatever she wants. She’s always been able to have it.

The game stops. They simply make love. No pretense, no scene. Just them.

He says he loves her, and he knows now that she knows it isn't part of the game. She says it back. She says it back while holding his face in her hands and looking him in the eye, and he knows for certain that all the times before, she'd been saying it without words.

The apartment goes back on the market. So does Eist’s actual apartment. He packs his things and finds space for himself inside Calanthe’s life, no longer a thing that exists in-between and outside of it. He meets her daughter; she meets his sister and his nieces and nephews. It becomes a little more real, a little more rooted in the rest of their lives—it becomes their life, singular.

Now he truly knows how it feels, to come home to the sight of her, to talk quietly about their days while doing thoroughly domestic stuff like washing all the dishes so that in a few hours, when it’s time to play, he absolutely can have her over the sink. They still go to restaurants and theatres and do absolutely scandalous things, but they also do family brunch with her daughter and attend their granddaughter’s preschool musicale. It’s balanced, it’s everything miraculous and mundane, rolled into one strange and heady life.

Now he knows, with even more certainty, that she absolutely was always the one he was supposed to meet that night.

* * *

Calanthe Riannon now always has a plus one at galas and soirees. She wears her highest heels and a deep, genuine smile in all her photographs. She does not talk about her personal life at work, but at least once a week there is an ostentatious display of flowers delivered to her desk. Her colleagues obviously meet the man who somehow showed up one day as her husband, without warning or explanation, and while he seems quite friendly, they don’t get to know him too well. Calanthe and Eist never seem to stay too long at such events. In fact, half the time, they've slipped away before anyone knows they’ve gone.

There was office speculation that he was some kind of escort, the first few times he attended an event. But the way they smile at each other when they think no one else is looking is too genuine to be anything else than love. By some miracle, he seems to make Raging Riannon a bit gentler these days, so no one really cares what their true arrangement is, as long as it means a more bearable office environment. One time, someone actually sees him make her laugh, when they are ordering drinks at the cash bar of some corporate gala. She clutches his elbow and ducks further into his shoulder as she continues giggling. He merely looks down and watches her, with a sweet little expression that not even the world’s best actor could feign.

That same someone may or may not also witness Calanthe and her mysterious husband coming out of the stairwell later that evening, both with flushed faces, her with decidedly less lipstick and a dress that had definitely been rearranged, him somehow missing his tie completely. That person does not share that information with anyone else, knowing that if the gossip reached Calanthe, she would instantly know who was responsible and probably seek retribution. She may be mellower now, but only a fool would tempt the current goodwill.

Still, it’s kind of heartwarming, knowing that even someone as tenacious and terrifying as Cal Riannon can find love.

Professor Tuirseach now wears a wedding band and peppers in stories about his wife in nearly every class he teaches, along with occasional anecdotes about his stepdaughter and eventually his granddaughter. His wife, the woman constantly discussed but never seen, becomes a bit of university legend. She is both somehow simultaneously the baddest bitch and the sweetest, purest soul to ever grace the earth, and Professor Tuirseach agrees with both assessments wholeheartedly.

The professor still works with local theatre companies as a dramaturge, and he offers extra credit to anyone who attends a show. So eventually, a student does spot Professor Tuirseach seated at the back of the theatre, next to a woman who keeps her hand firmly on his thigh and whispers to him throughout the performance—she must have quite a sense of humor, because he’s always smiling and silently chuckling in response. During intermission she kisses his cheek and even outright nibbles his ear when she thinks no one else is looking, but students are nothing if not keenly fascinated by their professors' lives outside of campus, and Professor Tuirseach is definitely top of the list of most fascinating teachers. After the performance, the professor is engaged in a deep conversation with the director and another theatre-goer—his wife stands beside him, watching him in rapt attention, hanging on his every word. Even though their bodies don't actually touch, they're stuck together like magnets, almost.

The student happily reports to the others that it seems Professor Tuirseach’s obsession with his own wife is equally matched by her feelings towards him. Everyone feels rather relieved. They had begun to get a bit worried that his obvious and deep levels of devotion might have been unmet, and that would have been a damn shame.

The student does not mention catching the professor making out in his car with his wife afterwards. Even the most fascinating professors deserve some semblance of privacy.

It’s kind of adorable, knowing that a marshmallow like Professor Tuirseach has found someone just as soft and sweet as he is.

* * *

If anyone ever asks, they say they met through a matchmaking service. It's not entirely untrue.

And Calanthe always smiles as Eist talks about their very first date, when they simply stayed up all night getting to know each other (again, not untrue). And when he says that by the time they went to breakfast the next morning, they knew beyond all doubt exactly where this was headed, she absolutely beams. Because that part is entirely true, in its own way.

It may have taken Calanthe a while to admit it, but now she can simply smile and say that yes, even though there was some kind of mix-up (which they always remain aggravatingly vague about, when telling the story), destiny worked itself out. And they met exactly who they were meant to meet, on a night when anything could happen.

Anything could have happened, she knows. And with even deeper certainty, she knows that out of all the anythings, the absolutely best thing did happen.

It’s happening still.


End file.
